


Seek a Newer World

by jamesraoulsilva



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Implied Bond/Ronson, Implied Silva/Severine, M/M, follows skyfall along great lines but diverges from canon at one point, martin., what happened in the scenes you didn't see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-03-02 16:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 52,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2818481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesraoulsilva/pseuds/jamesraoulsilva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People make mistakes.<br/>People have relationships.<br/>What matters is how you deal with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem "Ulysses".
> 
> Everything has been written, I am in the process of editing and revising.

They're all here.

The Prime Minister, the Minister of Defence, Minister of Security, Minister of Justice, Mallory beside her, Chairman of the Intelligence and Security committee, but today, unofficially cast in the role of 'advisor', and she herself: head of the country's Secret Service.

She wishes these bloody meetings could do without etiquette. It would be so much less tense if they could sit around a table, perhaps with a good drink, and call each other by their first names and say what they really think. Unfortunately, the government will live with a stick up their arse through the apocalypse and claim they are best friends.

“Minister,” the PM starts, flicking her head back to get her annoying bangs out of her face. M smiles inwardly.

She addresses the Minister of Defence, who seems to awaken from his slumber and vigorously moves the stacks of paper in front of him, until he has apparently found the one he is looking for. “Right, I'd like to move on to the next topic, which is...” He moves his glasses up his nose and once again goes through the stack of paper.

Mallory moves uneasily next to her. His face is a blank but M can see he is wringing his hands together under the table. No doubt he is bored or annoyed, or both. Maybe this is the moment in which he realises what this job really is, on a day-to-day basis. Less 'glamorously saving the country', more 'let's see how long you can stand bullshit like this'. She thinks that that is not really nice to think, but then she reminds herself of Mallory's manner towards her. He's been preying on her position for quite a long time and will strike as soon as she shows any sign of weakness. Fine. Make him squirm. See how long he lasts.

Meanwhile, the Minister is finally able to continue. “The topic of national security, and especially concerning our defences against cyber terrorism.”

The Minister of Security visibly seems to melt into her chair. Newell-Jones is a competent Minister, as far as Ministers can be competent according to M, but she has a history of _not_ preparing for meetings – with which M can sympathise.

“Two years ago, after the incident with the leaked official state documents, our friends in the U.S. began a criminal investigation of the founder of the organisation.” As the Minister of Defence goes on, M wonders why everyone keeps calling the United States, or rather the CIA, 'our friends'. Why can't they just come clear about their mutual rivalry (to keep it civilised – it's more like mutual hatred) and stop being so pretentious.

She switches back to full attention mode when Harper, the Minister of Defence, looks at her expectantly. Mallory leans towards her and mutters under his breath, “they want to know what you have to say about cyber terrorism.”

She clears her throat, mentally flogging herself for being dependant on bloody Mallory. “I think this is a more serious threat than we think it to be at this moment. The problem with these miscreants is that they are virtually untraceable if they want to, and as always, to prevent is better than to cure.”

The PM makes a sound of surprise. M knows it's fake.

“Hmm-mm, and oh, by the way,” the PM flutters her lashes at Mallory before returning attention to M, “how are your people doing with retrieving that hard drive? With the, what was it?” She goes through a couple of papers, orderly placed on the table before her. Meanwhile, Harper is slowly dying of shame.

“Ah! The names of people working undercover in terrorist organisations, was it?” The PM looks smug.

M readies herself. “I have put as many people on it as my resources allow, and I have a new Quartermaster in training. I hope that he can manage to kick the Q department back to life, since my old Quartermaster has been having health issues due to his age.”

McNeil, the Minister of Justice, is looking at his nails, then wipes invisible specks of dust from his jacket. M harrumphs, and he looks up and smiles weakly.

“Luckily, the hard drive is decrypted, and we will get a warning when the code is cracked. So, the situation is not entirely satisfactory, but I am sure the agents aren't in immediate danger either.”

The moment the PM opens her mouth to, undoubtedly, give criticism until M's ears are ringing, Mallory stands up and buttons his jacket. “Shall we take a break?”

M has never been happier about someone breaking etiquette.

**

A couple of weeks later, Mallory summons M to his fancy, preposterous office, with its ridiculously old-fashioned paintings, pricy liquors and plush chairs. She's outing her feelings towards Tanner, who just lets the words slide off of him. “Just a standard procedure,” he tries to comfort her, but he should have known she'd want to hear none of it. He wishes her good luck and keeps faithful guard just outside the door.

**

“Are we to call this 'civilian oversight?”

“No, we're to call this 'retirement planning'.”

 M glares daggers of death at Mallory. He's got a bit of a cheek on him. What has happened to 'respect your elders'?

He tries to convince her, anyway. Tries to bribe her with mentions of being awarded GCMG and leaving with dignity.

“Oh, to hell with dignity,” she spits at him and she means it. She's been department head for nigh on seventeen years and she has dealt with things no human being should ever be part of.

She got this country to getting up on its shaky feet again after the Cold War. She has seen a total of 8 of her 00-section perish and get replaced by other agents. She has delivered two of them to the enemy, and only got one back. She has prevented countless crimes against Queen and Country and those she could not prevent, she has dealt with afterwards. She brought down one of the most important bankers for international terrorists. She doesn't claim to have done this all on her own and she has her agents to thank for a large part of everything, but she is no fool and she knows she is a strong leader.

And she will be damned before she lets Mallory shake that conviction.

At 11:00 a.m. exactly she leaves his office. She refuses to stay any longer.

Tanner, faithful Tanner, holds the door of the luxurious company car open for her. She slides onto the comfortable leather chairs and allows herself to wind down, reading a newspaper.

Next to her, a phone rings. Tanner digs it out of his pocket and says “yes?”

She starts reading an article on a vicious mugging on Oxford Street, but whips her head round to Tanner when she hears the tone in his voice as he says, “now?”

Tanner puts his phone away. “Ma'am, alert from Q Branch. Someone is trying to decrypt the stolen hard drive.”

She curses under her breath.

“We're tracing the encryption signal. Localizing now... Centering in the UK. London.” Tanner sounds increasingly concerned.

M says to the driver, “get us back to base as soon as possible.” The chauffeur tips his hat and increases speed, driving the car carefully through the busy London traffic.

“It's coming from MI6.”

“What?”

“The data packet is linking to our network. Correction,” Tanner swallows, “this is behind our firewall. We should shut down.”

She makes her decision in a split second. She works quite well under pressure. A very small part of her is afraid of making the wrong decision – again, again, it screams – but she ignores that part, as she does always, otherwise she would not have lasted a month as head of the secret service.

“No. Track it. We need to know where it's coming from.”

Tanner whips out his phone and, presses '2' on the speed dial and immediately says, “strip the header, trace the source.”

“How the hell did they get into our system?” Fear starts seeping into her voice. She fully realises what this could mean, the dangers, and everything hinges on her decisions on the course of action.

“Getting trace back now. It appears...” Tanner's eyes grow wide. “It appears to be coming from _your_ computer, ma'am.”

“Shut it down.”

Then the video starts playing.

“What is this?”

 _Think on your sins_ , appears on the screen. She grows cold.

Tanner says nothing.

When they arrive at the Vauxhall bridge and are stopped by a police officer, she gets out of the car and approaches him swiftly. “For God's sake, just get out of the way! Don't you recognise the car?”

The officer extends a hand to keep her at a distance. “Madam–” he starts.

She hears the sound, it's like a train approaching but much louder and and much quicker and then the sound is deafening and the explosion hits and _her_ MI6 is torn apart from the inside out and she is powerless to stop it.

All she can do is watch.


	2. Chapter 1

Silva pushes his chair away from the desk he has been working at for three hours straight. He looks around – apparently darkness has set in. The hall is mainly lit by a faint shine from the moon, which comes in through the enormous windows, spanning almost the entire height of the wall. The other source of light is the bright screen of his laptop. He blinks a couple of times and cracks his neck sideways, before closing his laptop. Getting up and buttoning his jacket, he makes his way for the elevator, to get to his personal chambers.

When he rides the elevator up, the thought hits him. He is done. The preparations are ready. The moment he has been working towards for almost fifteen years is almost here. All that is left are check-ups to see whether all his instructions have been carried out to the letter. For that, he has to put his trust in other people, or rather, he will have to trust that the people he hired will think their pay check is satisfactory. He needs his men in London, Patrice in Shanghai and Sévérine in Macau. And then he will have to wait, wait for a nondescript agent to find Patrice, then find Sévérine who will bring this agent to him. A lot of it hinges on luck, or rather fortuity, but he is confident it will work. He has to be.

He feels a bit shaky when he gets out of the elevator, so he heads straight towards the kitchen to make himself a cup of strong coffee. It's an old machine, the one in which you have to put a filter with the coffee. He is quite fond of it – at least, the coffee is good. While he waits for his coffee, he looks around his, his... well. Technically it is an apartment.

There is a kitchen, separated from the spacious living room by a sliding door. In the living room, one wall is almost entirely made of glass, looking out on the ocean. On clear days, Silva can see the coast of Japan. In the living room, there's one door leading to the hallway, in which there are three more doors: to his bedroom, to the bathroom and a door which eventually leads to the elevator.

He brings his coffee to the living room and places it on a table, before taking off his jacket, which he carefully folds and places on a chair. He sits down on a ludicrously luxurious armchair, from which he can look outside, at the sky which seems to melt into the sea. It's a clear night, and he can see stars. For a reason he can't really explain to himself, he decides to count them, imagining he's back in Hong Kong, before the smog made the sky invisible to anyone but God himself, he supposes. It doesn't take long for him to fall asleep, in his chair, his coffee forgotten by his side.

**

One week later, he's had enough. He's ready for the final rehearsal before he will set his plans in motion. His grimaces when he thinks that. It makes him sound like the ultimate evil villain from a fairy tale, 'setting the plans in motion'. He doesn't think in terms of good and evil all that often anymore. What he is about to do, is simply what needs be done. He feels it is not fate, exactly, but he simply has no _choice_ in the matter. This is what he was made to do. Not born to do. His birthright has been forfeited – instead, he has been shaped anew.

He settles himself behind his laptop once again, cellphone at hand. First, London. He needs his contacts in the Metropolitan Police to give him his outfit, assuming he gets that far. He swallows. Then, he needs someone to check whether the bombs he had placed in the tunnels are still functioning.

He sends two simple texts, through his handmade network, bouncing it across the globe, making it virtually untraceable. Still, to remain on the safe side, he wants to make sure that if someone would accidentally see the texts, it wouldn't make sense except to the intended recipient.

 _[sent 13/11/2012, 11:23 to G.L.]_ Check: uniform. Availability: starting tomorrow at 12:00 through the coming two weeks. -RS

 _[sent 13/11/2012, 11:25 to R.M.]_ Check: X in tunnels for function, placement, det.. Deliver device to G.L. -RS

Since everyone would panic at 'detonation,' R.M. and Silva agreed that they would abbreviate it to 'det'.

Now, something very important. He needs to make sure his network is ready for sabotaging MI6's network. This is a routine check he has done many, many times before, so it's done in a matter of minutes. He breathes a sigh of relief when everything seems to be all right.

Then, he needs Patrice and Sévérine to know exactly where to be at what time. For Patrice, he again suffices with a simple text. He picks up the phone, however, to inform Sévérine. As far as he knows, she's making herself a regular at the Macau Floating Dragon Casino. He checks his watch: she should be up by now. She picks up after a few seconds.

“Yes?” her voice sounds scratchy with either sleep or smoke.

“Hello, dear.” Silva shoves himself away from his desk and stretches his long legs on the desk before him.

“Oh, Raoul.” She doesn't manage to hide her disappointment, at least not well enough for Silva. Then again, he trained her.

“Yes, it's me.” He remains silent for a moment, hearing her breathe steadily through the phone. “I wanted to let you know that you need to be ready to proceed as planned in... probably, somewhere the coming two weeks.”

“All right.” Slight surprise there. Did she think he was never going to come round and actually _do_ it?

“As for your temporary collaboration with Patrice, do you know where you need to be and when?”

“Yes.”

“Please, do me the pleasure of hearing you tell me exactly _where_ and _when_.” He manages to be just venomous enough to make her reply swiftly and absolutely correct.

“Good,” he says.

“O-kay,” she says.

He gets up, feeling restless, and starts pacing up and down in the enormous room. He feels the heat from the computer servers and reminds himself to get someone to look at the faulty airconditioning.

Silva hears Sévérine breathing in deeply, and he says, before she gets the chance to hang up on _him_ , “message me when you're ready, and make sure you arrange anything else with Patrice.”

“I will. Is there anything else I need to know?” Her voice sounds obedient to Silva – obviously she's trying to please him.

“No. Is everything going according to plan in the Casino?”

“Absolutely. I'm treated as a princess and a regular.” She laughs softly.

“As you should be treated. All right, if that's all, I excpect your message when you arrive in Shanghai.” He pauses, not sure how to end the call. “Goodbye.”

“Bye.” After a slight hesitation, she adds, “dear.”

He terminates the connection.

**

At 5 o'clock the next afternoon, the 14th of November, he rises from his afternoon nap. Tonight is the night that the end will begin. He grins at himself in the mirror. He feels... so much. Nervous; his stomach hurts and his palms are sweaty. Excited; finally, action. And, although he has trouble admitting it to himself, he also feels scared. If today's plan fails, then he can just as well throw everything else away. Today _has_ to work.

He shaves, combs his hair, rinses his prosthesis and puts on nice cologne. He dresses in one of his favourite suits, a midnight black one, and thinks about the colour of his shirt. He decides white, rather than burgundy, because he has no desire to look like Dracula or some other supernatural being. He wants to look crisp, and in control. Control, that is the key.

He logs on to his computer and hacks into M's schedule. Good. The meeting with Gareth Mallory scheduled from 10:00 a.m. – 11:00 a.m. is still unchanged. He checks the clock: it's 5:45 p.m., and he'll have to have everything ready and come into action at about 7:05, to conform with the time zones. He sets to work.

At 6:30 he is absolutely ready and basically only has to press one button to make the whole Vauxhall Cross building blow up.

He is shivering with anticipation and gets up to pace.

The minutes crawl by.

At 7:04 he takes place behind his laptop again and counts to 60. When his watch tells him it's 7:05, he uploads the file to M's personal computer.

 _Think on your sins_.

 _Your son isn't in HK_. The anagram seems fitting and he's not sure whether he came up with this or 'think on your sins' first.

Then, he breaches MI6's servers.

He hits the final key – _enter_ , how fitting – and closes his eyes and expects the world to explode below him. But it doesn't.

He isn't sure what he feels.

As he turns on the television and changes the channel to BBC1 just in time to tune in for the live report, he feels he can finally breathe again.

Today, he succeeded.

**

Calis Beach, Fethiye. 14th November, 10 a.m.

James Bond wakes from his slumber, beer bottles on the floor surrounding the bed. He looks to his right and sees a girl lying there. He is quite sure he has woken up together with her before, but by God, he can't remember her name. He can barely even remember last night. Reaching next to the bed, he finds a Heineken which hasn't been completely drained and knocks it back.

He has been here for 23 days and the longer he stays here, the less he can remember.

Bond pushes the girl's arm off his chest and gets up with a loud grunt, taking a few unsteady steps as a headache suddenly takes him over like a herd of wildebeest trampling him. He manages to make his way towards the bathroom of the cottage. It hardly deserves the title 'bathroom', but at least it has a working sink and toilet, which is something to be thankful for. He looks in the mirror and grimaces. He reaches for the pill bottle standing on the sink and shakes it empty on his hand. There are two left and he swallows them dry. With another grimace he turns to hobble back towards the room where the bed is, and picks up his least dirty shirt from the floor.

As he pulls it over his head, he clenches his jaw not to wince. His shoulder is killing him – the two mouthfuls of beer weren't enough to take the edge off and the effect of the pills hasn't kicked in yet. He easily gets into his jeans – they used to be a bit too tight but he hasn't kept up with his diet while he was in Fethiye. Mostly alcohol. Makes the hunger go away. He steps into borrowed, stolen, or maybe his own shoes and carefully puts on his jacket, before he heads outside.

Once out there, with his feet firmly planted in the sand, he tilts his head back and just enjoys the fresh air on his face. Life is so... simple here. He breathes in deeply and tries not to think, tries to let the drugs do their work.

Picking up a brisk pace, he walks towards the bar on the beach and shows the owner, Yusuf, his money. Yusuf is well acquainted with Bond by now and he motions at him to do whatever he wants, as he continues cleaning the tables.

Bond reaches below the counter and picks up a random bottle of hard liquor, and takes a draft. The television behind him, which was playing music, suddenly switches to a live news report. Bond hears the tune and the “this is CNN breaking news” and does deliberately not pay attention to it. CNN, what bullshit. Americans lie. Then again, he thinks while knocking back a glass in one go, so do the British.

“... what now appears to be a major terrorist attack in the heart of London.”

Bond sees the reflection of the television screen, recognises the building, and his heart seems to stop.


	3. Chapter 2

He sits unmoving for a minute or so after the news report, as the realisation hits him that the drugs and the drink and the sex and the beach and the peace did not cut it for him. He has to go back. Everything in him screams for action and he has the feeling he could have prevented this from happening. It feels a lot like guilt.

Bond quickly makes his way back to the cottage and picks up all his dirty clothes to stash into a bag, but then he decides to leave everything behind. He has his wallet with identification and money and that should be enough to get him back to London. He borrows Yusuf's cell phone to call for a taxi to bring him to Dalaman Airport. During the drive, which takes about an hour, he thinks on what he is going to say to M when he gets back.

He is not sure what to feel. People died in the explosion. When the thought 'she should have been among those people' pops into his head, he ignores it and tries to think of something else, anything else. His drugged mind deceives him, lets him think of the only women he loved: his mother, Vesper, and M. He never got to know his mother well. Vesper died within arm's reach of him. And now he does not know whether he wants M to welcome him back with open arms or whether he wants her to suffer like he did. Why didn't she trust him to handle the man on the train?

He clenches his jaw, closes his eyes, and rests his head against the car window. The taxi driver wakes him when they arrive. Bond books the first flight to London, but he has to fly via Istanbul.

Great. Bloody Istanbul again.

**

He falls asleep during the flight to Heathrow, and wakes up when the flight attendant softly shakes him. “Sir? Sir, we have arrived in London.”

He grunts – his shoulder is absolutely killing him and when he moves to get up, his hands are shaking. Wonderful, the detoxing is already kicking in. He nods at the attendant and makes his way out of the plane. The sun has set already, darkness creeping over England.

**

For some reason, he knows her address by heart. After she kicked him out of her flat and told him to never break in again, he kept a close look at changes in her address. When her husband died, she moved out of her flat and into a very nice (and no doubt expensive) place in the City of Westminster.

Outside Heathrow, he hails a taxi and tells the driver the name of a street a few blocks away from M’s place. When the taxi arrives there, he tips the man and starts walking. He doesn't know what he is going to say. He does not know if she is home already or still... Well, where? Would they have moved into Churchill's Bunker already? He guesses it is about 1 a.m., only fourteen hours after the explosion. MI6 can work fast. He thinks that if everything goes as it's supposed to go (which evidently isn't the case, otherwise the bloody headquarters would not have exploded), they could have most equipment up and running by now.

When he arrives at her house, he hops over the fence and sees that all the lights are off. M would not go to bed this _early_ so he thinks he is right about assuming she is still at work, taking care of everything that needs to be taken care of.

Bond massages his right shoulder quickly before he runs up, jumps, and manages to get a grip on the rain pipe. As he starts making his way up, he can't help it when a groan of pain escapes him. The window on the second floor is open a chink and from his position on the rain pipe, he manages to further open it. He glances around the garden and the street behind him to see if anyone has noticed him yet. When that does not seem to be the case, he gets his legs inside first and ungracefully falls on the floor inside. He gets up as quickly as he can and crouches, but relaxes when the bedroom he has apparently landed in, is empty.

He breathes a deep sigh of relief that no alarm has gone off.

Nonetheless, he remains quiet and moves as silently as possible, but as he descends the stairs, he almost misses the last step and his heart skips a beat. He stabilises himself. He really needs to cut back on the pills and drink. Just as he decides that, his eye falls on M's quite extensive liquor collection.

Bond switches on a small lamp, picks his drink – plain Martini bianco – and switches off the lamp again. He walks to the windowsill farthest away from the front door and sits down on it.

He doesn't have to wait very long. Either that, or he completely lost track of time.

As M walks in and flips the light switch, he notices how much older he looks. Then a cold bitterness grasps him, a feeling he recognises with absolute certainty. It is the same feeling he felt over six years ago, when he called M and told her, “the bitch is dead.” And although that hurt, it was the right thing to happen. Betrayal is unforgivable.

At least, that is what Bond keeps telling himself.

**

The next morning, the drive to Churchill's Bunker, MI6 emergency headquarters, seems surreal. Once again clad in a suit, which feels like his second skin again after walking around in it for a few minutes, he feels he should feel like his old self again.

Only he doesn't. He is not sure what to feel, what to think. The last couple of years, he has worked so hard on being able _not_ to feel. Since he smashed a man's head into a sink and then shot him in Lahore, Pakistan, he has put much effort in forgetting.

He dreads allowing himself to feel now. Insensitivity is his coping mechanism and has become a large part of the man he is today.

Truth be told, he isn't sure what would be left of him if that part, his insensitivity, would be taken away – if indeed, there's anything left at all. Then again, that’s kind of the purpose of being a 00-agent, isn’t it?

He doesn't know how to behave towards M. He doesn't know what he is to her and therefore, what she is to him. If she did not trust him to finish the job then, why would she trust him now? And again, vice versa, he cannot put his trust in someone who would rather have him get shot than allow him to try and finish his opponent. She trusted a new agent on her second or third time out in the field, to take an insanely hard shot on a moving target at a long distance, rather than trust an agent from the 00-section, who has proven his mettle and reliability to do whatever is necessary. A burst of sympathy for defectors suddenly enters his mind and he tries to mentally shield himself. Those are the dangerous thoughts.

**

When they arrive, Tanner tells him to change into sports clothing, as he will firstly be examined physically. He makes his way to the locker rooms where he finds standard-issue blue sweatpants, shirts and generic sports shoes.

**

"Right now they think it's someone from her past. Maybe from the time where she was head of her station in Hong Kong. She has no idea what this all means."

Bond keeps doing crunches and thinks, not looking at Tanner, who is seated on the bench Bond is training on.

Her past. What does he know about her? Very little. What he does know, however, is that M is intelligent.

That observation stops him from what he is doing. He sits up and looks sharply at Tanner. "And you believe that?"

"The truth is," Tanner continues, "we have no clue who took the list."

Bond grimaces and continues.

"Or what they plan to do with it."

Bond remains silent and says nothing.

If he were the owner of the hard drive, what would he do with it? What would he do with a list of agents embedded in international terrorist organisations? The answer seems simple to Bond. Blackmail. The next question is, then, what would this mystery owner want from the British Secret Service? The notion that it is someone from M's past seems to fit with the blackmail theory, but then again, it has been a long while since M was running things in Hong Kong.

When Tanner and Bond move towards the next room, following the quiet and strict-looking physical examinators, and Bond starts doing pull-ups, Tanner keeps talking to Bond, sprouting theories. When Bond grunts when he does another pull-up, Tanner apparently thinks that is meant for him.

"We can always do this later."

Bond doesn't really mind, but his shoulder is killing him, and this seems a good excuse to get away from the bloody examinators. "You know what? Let's."

When the room is vacant, Bond falls to the floor and takes deep breaths until he feels somewhat rested, then gets up and walks to the locker room, taking his sweat-soaked shirt off, wiping his face with a towel.

**

Next up is the firing range, which Bond has been secretly dreading. He hasn't fired a gun in over three weeks and he knows his skills rapidly deteriorate if he doesn't practice – or not practice, but is out in the field – at least a couple of times each week. Besides that, his right arm has been fairly useless, but he refuses to let anyone look at it. There are likely still bullet fragments in his shoulder, since it hurt like a bitch (comparing to all the previous times he has been shot). He isn't confident enough in his left-handed skills in a test which focuses on precise aim, so he decides to just go for it.

And it turns out to be a total disaster.

From hip position, he raises his gun, aims at the head and pulls the trigger.

He digs his fingers into his right shoulder and pushes, hard, clenching his jaw, and fires another bullet.

When he misses again, a mixture of cold rage and shame at failing enters his system, and he moves towards the target, firing as he goes. He is aware he is breaking protocol, but he has already realised he will likely fail the marksmanship test when he completely missed his first shot.

When his gun has run out of bullets, he stands still and looks at the result.

If this target had been a real person, he (or she) would have been in a lot of pain before quickly bleeding out.

However, none of the shots are fatal on their own.

Bond sighs, turns on his heel, delivers his gun to the ever-silent examinators with their bloody clipboards and stomps out to the locker room.

When he decides he really wants to take a shower, Tanner sticks his head through the chink in the door and says, “you're up for your psychological evalu–”

He clears his throat as he sees Bond with a towel draped over his neck and shoulders, looks away, and continues, “... well. If you're ready for it?”

Bond casts his eyes heavenwards and mutters, too softly for Tanner to hear, “do I look ready?”

Tanner disappears and Bond sighs, picks out a clean and less-stinking shirt and follows him.

Wonderful. Psychological evaluation.

**

“I'd like to start with some simple word associations. Just tell me the first word that pops into your head.” The evaluator smiles at Bond, in a way that's no doubt supposed to be reassuring and comforting, but to Bond it seems more like a shark, looking forward to dinner and smelling blood (or in this case, sweat) already.

“For example,” the man continues, “I might say 'day' and you say...”

Bond stares into empty space left of the evaluator. “Wasted.”

The man barely manages to not roll his eyes, and he huffs and mumbles, “all right.” That bloody smile again. Bond would love to wipe it off of his face.

“Gun,” is the next prompt.

“Shot.”

“Agent.”

“Provocateur.”

“Woman.”

Bond smiles bitterly. “Provocatrix,” he says with a raised eyebrow.

“Heart.”

“Target.”

“Bird.”

Bond huffs. “Sky.”

“M.”

With the slightest hesitation, which might not be hesitation at all to the ones watching, “bitch.”

“Sunlight,” the man says.

“Swim.”

“Moonlight.”

“Dance.” God forbid he gets all these warm and fuzzy feelings. This is nonsensical. He wants to get up and get out, forget all this bullshit, but then remembers he needs approval to get back on the job.

“Murder.”

“Employment.” And we're back in Secret Service territory.

“Country.”

“England.”

“Skyfall.”

Bond grows cold on the inside. All kinds of words which he will never utter out loud 'pop into his head'. Mother, father, death, moors, coldness, desolation.

He locks gazes with the evaluator, who repeats, “Skyfall.”

“Done.” And he gets up and walks away.

From behind the glass where they have been watching, M feels the gazes of both Tanner and Mallory boring into her. “Well,” she mutters. “This is going well.”

**

After more physical tests, which go about as great as Bond expected them to go, he has had enough of it.

Exhausted, he once again makes his way to the old and cold and damp locker room, which he gradually started hating more throughout the day. He walks to a locker where he stashed his personal belongings before he changed in his workout clothes. He takes off his shirt and throws it in a corner, before he stands in front of a sink with a mirror above it. His left hand starts reaching out to grab a nonexistent pill bottle, but halfway through he disguises the motion as gripping the rim of the sink. He grits his teeth and digs his knife out of his pocket and clicks to make the blade slide out. He closes his eyes briefly and sets the tip of the blade against the biggest, ugliest, reddest mark on his shoulder.

Breathing in deeply, he applies pressure and digs the knife into his flesh until he feels something hard. A split second later, he feels the pain, searing throughout his shoulder. He feels blood – his blood – dripping down his chest.

He moves the knife again, and manages to dig the tip of the blade under what he supposes is shrapnel. He moves the knife and, looking in the mirror closely to see what he is doing, pries the damned piece of metal out of his flesh. He catches it in his left hand and deposits it on the shelf below the mirror.

He closes his eyes again and breathes in a couple of times, before he rubs his thumb over his shoulder to decide the precise position of the next shard. He digs in his knife again without hesitation and manages to get it out. One more time – then he is done, he splashes icy cold water over his chest, arm, neck and shoulder to try and numb out the pain. It doesn't work.

Bond feels he has been sober exactly long enough, but unfortunately he needs to stitch himself up before he can go home – no, back to his hotel. He isn't planning on buying a place before he knows what MI6 will do to him and what he himself will do about MI6. He gets a medical kit, sits down on a bench and forcefully injects a syringe of anaesthesia in his shoulder. Then he splashes some alcoholic, disinfecting solution over the knife wounds, which stings like hell. He stitches himself up quickly and neatly before his hands start trembling and he allows himself to acknowledge he is dead tired from the day's proceedings.

He puts on his suit again, throws his medical equipment in a bin and everything he has worn that day in a laundry basket. Before he leaves the bunker again and gets driven to his hotel by one of the company's cars, which is either an unexpected luxury or a pity treatment, Bond thinks bitterly, he puts the three oddly shaped shrapnel parts into a plastic bag and delivers them to the analytical department.

"For her eyes only."


	4. Chapter 3

Early next morning, M is sitting in her office, waiting for Bond and Mallory to come in. Bond will be getting his results back, and since Mallory was in the office today anyway, she figured this would be a good moment for the two to meet. She wonders how Bond will feel about Mallory and how he will behave around him, but she thinks she has a quite the idea of how Bond will react. As far as she knows, both men think they are ‘ _the leader_ ’ and will try to influence the other.

She sighs and uselessly moves some stacks of paper around on her desk, then once again opens the folder with Bond's final evaluations. 'Confidential', a red stamp says on the front. She opens it and looks at the scores. Medical evaluation – "failed". This is the only one that actually surprises her. She heard something from Tanner about his arm, and shrapnel, and she hopes he has either had someone take aftercare of it or, more likely in Bond’s case, took care of it himself.

Physical evaluation – "failed". Apparently his stamina and endurance have rapidly deteriorated during the weeks he had been MIA, supposedly KIA. She wonders what the hell he has been keeping himself busy with during those weeks, then she decides she does not necessarily want to know the details.

Psychological evaluation – "alcohol and substance addiction indicated, subject is not approved for field duty and immediate suspension from service advised". The alcohol and substance comment isn't news to her, and she personally doesn't care what her agents do as long as they are successful, and 'advice' to suspend her best agent? Advice is something to listen to, then make one’s own decisions. Advice is something often to be ignored.

There's a knock on her door – she closes the file and looks up. It's Bond. She gestures for him to enter, which he does. She doesn't bother standing up and ignores him, mostly.

His face remains blank. He sits down, anyway, and seems to intensely look at her. M keeps pretending that her files require her attention and after a minute or so, he starts drumming his fingers against his thigh. She sighs but doesn't talk to him yet. She keeps replaying the scenes of Bond in her house and Bond during the evaluation.

He looked like utter crap. The night before yesterday, when he suddenly appeared in her house, came like a bolt from the blue. At first instance, she was happy to see he was alive, but on second thought, when she had gotten a closer look at him and heard his tone, she wasn't so sure anymore this was a blessing. Maybe it would have been better for Bond to leave MI6 this way. And seeing the results from his evaluation now... She isn't sure whether it is a _realistic_ decision to allow him back into active service. She hopes Tanner gets the results from the shrapnel back soon – if possible, she will let him figure out who tried to kill him on the train, and figure out who the hard drive has. She has put 003 on the case already, but so far, without any useful results. She will take her off and put her on a co-op mission with another agent, since she apparently has much to learn.

She sighs again, but then Bond speaks.

**

As Bond sits in M's new office, the agent's pleasant perfume – he still doesn't know her name – lingering in nostrils, he thinks about this Mallory. Tanner's words– “charming man. I think you and he are really going to hit it off” – keep coming back at him.

Then his attention switches back to M. His gaze falls on the ugly ceramic bulldog statue with the Union Jack draped over its body. “The whole office goes up in smoke and that bloody thing survives.”

Bond can't help but grin at M's reply.

“Your interior decorating tips have always been appreciated, double-oh seven.”

Bond hears footsteps outside of the office and whips his head around. He sees a tall man with a prominent nose and a hairline that does seem to be receding a bit. This must be Mallory. Bond basically propels himself out of his chair and pushes his shoulders back.

Before he can say something, the man starts speaking. "I hope I haven't missed anything. The PM does prattle on in a crisis. Bond," he extends his hand.

"Mallory," Bond says, and shakes his hand. Firm grip. Good. That is always a sign of competent men, or women, for that matter. Bond hates people with limp handshakes. He always gets the shivers. Worse are countesses or ladies who extend their hand with their palms down, forcing all the men to kiss their hands. Even worse are men who do that, and then expect him to kiss their signet rings. Such a shame that diplomacy and etiquette prevent him from forcefully shaking those hands, or in case of the men, punching them straight in the jaw.

M breaks through his violent, jaw-punching thoughts. "I've just been reviewing Bond's tests," she says, addressing Mallory, as both men sit down.

She turns to Bond. "Seems you passed. By the skin of your teeth," she adds.

Bond knows she lies. And he's grateful for it. To the extent he can be grateful towards M.

"You're back on active service," she continues. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," he says, regardless. He stands up and wipes his palms on his pants. He looks from M to Mallory, who is still comfortably seated, his long legs crossed, and back to M again, who is still holding his file. "Uhm, I'll... I'll be outside," he says to M.

He is almost at the door when Mallory speaks.

"I only have one question."

Bond rolls his eyes before he turns back to the room, his face hopefully not betraying his feelings.

"Why not... stay dead? You have the perfect way out. Go and live quietly somewhere. Not many field agents get to leave this cleanly."

"Do you get out in the field much?" Bond asks skeptically.

"You don't need to be an operative to see the obvious. It's a young man's game." Mallory gets up and sticks his hands in his pockets, stretching, pushing his chest forward. Damn, he really is a tall guy.

"Look, you've been seriously injured. There's no shame in saying you've lost a step."

With every second that passes and every nonsensical word the man spouts, Bond feels his dislike for Mallory growing.

"The only shame," Mallory continues, "would be not admitting it until it's too late."

Bond wonders what he's trying to achieve. It's impossible from Mallory to hate Bond already, they've never met before and Bond has spoken only a handful of words. Furthermore, Bond has never heard his name before Tanner mentioned him in the drive to the headquarters yesterday, although that might have to do with Bond not keeping up to date with MI6's politics – something he has been keeping himself far, far away from. Is Mallory genuinely trying to protect him, then? Or just trying to exert his influence on MI6 already by firing old and useless agents?

"Hire me or fire me," Bond says eventually, and with a harsh tone to his voice, "it's entirely up to you."

"If he says he's ready, he's ready," M interrupts what she sees as a power play.

Mallory turns to M. "Perhaps you can't see it, or maybe you won't."

"What exactly are you implying?" M inquires sharply.

"You're sentimental about him."

Bond sees fire in M's eyes. "As long as I'm head of this department," she says, "I'll choose my own operatives."

He can almost hear the sarcastic 'thank you very much' she would absolutely have added if she was speaking to someone with a lower position. Nevertheless, she has put Mallory in his place. Good.

Mallory regards her carefully and breathes in deeply through his nose before he says, "fair enough."

Then he addresses Bond. "Good luck, double-oh seven." He advances. "Don't cock it up."

Bond keeps looking at him until Mallory passes him and only when he hears the door opening and closing, he allows himself to relax a bit, shoulders dropping.

Tanner reluctantly looks up at him, then at M, and says, "we've, uhm, we've analysed the shrapnel fragments." Bond walks to the computer Tanner is seated behind and M joins them.

"You're lucky it wasn't a direct hit or it would have cut you in half."

Bond smiles inwardly. He's always been lucky. Well, either that, or his opponent is a bad marksman.

Tanner continues. “It's a depleted uranium shell. Military grade. Hard to get, extremely expensive, and only used by a select few. Recognise anyone?”

Three faces appear on the computer screen. Bond immediately recognises the most left one. A fair bit of stubble, hair crew cut. “Him.”

Tanner selects him and more information pops up on the screen. “Okay... Name's Patrice, he's a ghost. No known residence or country of origin.”

Bond suppresses his disappointment. That would have been too easy. Well, a man can hope. But not in his line of work, maybe. “So how do we find him?”

“Well, luckily, we still have one or two friends left in the CIA.”

Bond thinks back on the time the CIA, or more precisely Felix Leiter, helped him in his poker game against Le Chiffre. Those were fun times. He doesn't hate the Americans as much as everyone else in MI6, or at least M, seems to. Maybe that's because he wasn't born in the United Kingdom. Then again, he was born in Germany and Bond has the feeling that the world population doesn't allow Germans to hate anyone yet. The sins of the father.

“They're after him for the Yemeni ambassador's murder, and they're getting close.” Tanner clicks on something and says, pleasantly surprised, “intel is he's going to be in Shanghai in two days’ time, probably on a job.”

“You're to go there and await further instructions. If he turns up, he's yours,” M says to Bond. “Find out who he works for and who has the list. Then terminate him.” After a second, she adds, “for Ronson.”

Bond looks straight at her. Part of him, the part that had nice thoughts about defectors, is surprised that she remembered his name. Another part of him feels guilty and hurt upon the mention of Ronson. Guilty that he couldn't save him, hurt because he misses him.

So he says, “with pleasure.”

Then, in a soft voice, and secretly wishing Tanner wasn't there, right that second, he asks, “'s there anything else you want to tell me?”

If she would say something now, he would be able to forgive her.

“No. Report to the new Quartermaster for your documentation. He hasn't set up shop yet, but Tanner will put you two together. Good luck,” she says. All business. He should have known better than to expect anything resembling apologetic feelings from her.

“Thank you.”

“You _are_ ready for this?”

Is it doubt, or concern? He can't tell the difference. “Yes, ma'am.”

He nods at Tanner and leaves.

Tanner looks up at M, twisting his neck awkwardly. M is looking at Bond, who disappears through the glass door and down the stairs. “I didn't know Bond passed the tests.”

M seems to snap back to reality and looks at him. “He didn't.”

She walks back to her desk and finally files away all the folders lying there. When Tanner closes his laptop and stands up, she says to him, “and don't you dare say that to anyone.”

Tanner swallows, nods, and leaves.


	5. Chapter 4

When Bond leaves the office, he feels almost excited. Finally, he can _do_ something again. He's been itching for action ever since he got back. He checks his watch, which miraculously hasn't been stolen during his stay in Fethiye, and he hasn't sold in order to get more cash money to spend on alcohol. It's barely 9 a.m. and he will probably have to take a plane from Heathrow this evening or tomorrow morning. This gives him a whole day off, except for the time he has to meet this new Quartermaster. He has to admit, he is quite curious as to whom this new supposed genius is. Before he left for Istanbul, he caught wind of M looking for a new Quartermaster, but he didn't know she found one so soon.

When he opens the heavy iron doors which separate the main halls of the headquarters from the cold tunnels, he expects to see a car there, as per their agreement. All traffic to and from the bunker should go through MI6 company cars, to retain as much safety and secrecy as possible. He walks into the tunnel both ways for a bit, then mentally shrugs, decides to shod it, and walk. He could use the exercise, he grimly reminds himself.

After a few minutes he gets in the open air, and one of the guards outside gives him a chastising look, the other a surprised one. He requests the gate to be opened and when one of the guards opens his mouth to undoubtedly tell him to use a car next time, he says, "I know, I know. Logistic problems down there," and jerks his thumb over his shoulder. One of the guards casts his eyes upwards, slings his assault rifle over his shoulder and starts jogging down the tunnel to flog someone there, while the other starts muttering into his radio.

Bond grins without humour and decides to walk, as he needs to stop by a few stores get lunch and clean clothes for his trip. He heads towards the first Sainsbury's he sees and buys bread and peanut butter. Not exactly keeping to his diet, but he has only eaten weird shit in Fethiye and he is dying for a regular sandwich. He'll order take-out this evening.

With a Sainsbury's bag he continues his journey, and decides to take a bus to Oxford Street rather than a cab, which would be more expensive and would take just as long. He waits at the bus stop and for the first time in a couple of weeks, feels like an ordinary person. He looks around at the crowd waiting together with him, and wonders about their occupations, when he realises all of his enemies probably think he is dead and he does not, for once, have to look out for possible assassins.

He gets out of the bus at Oxford Street. Unfortunately, he hasn't the time to get bespoke suits, so he will settle for Tom Ford instead. And he'll treat himself to a new coat, too.

**

When he enters a Tom Ford store, a girl who can't be older than 20 with a top that has been cut too low, revealing too much of her pretty skin which has been spray-tanned (Bond sees a spot she missed on her neck, which looks strangely pale in contrast to her face and neckline), immediately flutters towards him, takes his grocery bag and sits him down to discuss, in great detail, what kind of suit he exactly is looking for.

He sighs and says he wants a grey and a navy blue one, with two simple white shirts, thank you, and this is my size, no I do decidedly not want a cup of coffee, thank you again.

Half an hour later he walks out of the store again with two more bags. It's only ten more minutes to his hotel, so he skips the excruciating waiting time in the London morning traffic.

Just when he walks into his hotel room and has deposited his new suits on the bed carefully, his mobile phone, a Sony Xperia T which Tanner shoved into his hands yesterday, beeps in his pocket. It's a text, from Tanner, which simply says, "Q, National Gallery, 14:45. -BT."

Bond smiles. Good. He has a few more hours before he has to go to the Gallery, so he decides to go for a swim in the hotel's pool. He slips into the standard white bathrobe that each and every hotel in the world has, slings a towel over his shoulder, and skips the slippers which are a bit too fuzzy to his liking in favour of walking bare-foot.

The pool is almost vacant, there is an elderly couple splashing around in the shallow part, a couple of teenagers in the whirlpool who seem to be recovering from a night out and some children chasing each other in and around the pool. The children, however, decide to leave when Bond throws them a menacing glance and starts swimming laps. He spends a pleasant hour there, before getting hungry and returning to his room to enjoy his very normal, ordinary peanut butter sandwich.

At 14:00 he is getting bored in the hotel, and he leaves for the National Gallery. As usual, the place is completely crowded with tourists with large photo cameras, which are completely useless since photographing is forbidden and the security guards will immediately come towards you if you so much as think about taking a picture.

Bond walks around leisurely, having some time left before he needs to meet this Q, and he has no idea where he has to be. He hopes the Quartermaster knows what he looks like, otherwise they could pass each other all day without knowing so. Eventually, he is done with looking at all the paintings, and walks into a room which is completely empty, which is a rarity. As he sits down, he sees a young man entering the same room and sighs.

He stares at a painting without seeing what's on it, and the young man sits down next to him.

Bond hopes he will just go away, but then the... boy? man? young adult? begins to talk. "Always makes me feel a little melancholy. A grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap."

One too many times today, Bond sighs. Another of those kids pretending to understand ancient paintings. The guy naively continues, apparently not being harmed by Bond's threatening aura.

"The inevitability of time, don't you think? What do you see?"

Bond then _actually_ looks at the painting and bluntly states what he sees. "A bloody big ship. Excuse me," and he moves to stand up.

When the boy-man softly says, "I'm your new Quartermaster," Bond blinks and sits down again.

"You must be joking,” Bond says, a grin forming on his face.

"Why, because I'm not wearing a lab coat?"

"Because you still have spots." Preposterous, preposterous.

"My complexion is hardly relevant."

"Well, your competence is."

"Age is no guarantee of efficiency."

"And youth is no guarantee of innovation." Bond has to admit, the kid seems to have a bit of a snark on him. Which is good. But only if he doesn't think he can trump Bond on that.

"I'll hazard I can do more damage on my laptop sitting in my pyjamas before my first cup of Earl Grey than you can do in a year in the field," he says sweetly.

"Oh, so why do you need me?" Bond asks, having trouble to keep the smirk he's feeling out of his voice.

"Every now and then a trigger has to be pulled."

"Or not pulled," Bond supplements. "Hard to know which in your _pyjamas._ "

Finally, they look at each other, both grinning.

"Q," Bond says.

"Double-oh seven," Q says.

Q gives him a gun and a radio. Not the most extensive equipment Bond has ever taken with him on a liquidation, but then again, he's a fan of minimalism. Keep things simple, less chance of fucking everything up. When Q, undoubtedly for form's sake, adds that he hopes Bond will return the equipment, Bond can't help but think someone must have told him that that is a thing he _never_ does, and feels a flash of nostalgia for the old Q.

He checks his ticket and passport and all other papers Tanner apparently deemed necessary for him to have on his trip to Shanghai, and heads to the hotel to pack. His flight leaves later the same evening and he decides to leave early, to eat dinner at the airport and buy a book or magazine in one of the shops there, as it's a long flight.

When he re-checks his ticket, he sees that he's been booked economy class. He sighs and remembers the days of yore, when the 00-section was held in such a high regard that they often flew business class. Ah, well. There's nothing he can do about it, only perhaps, if he's seated next to an unpleasant person, seducing a flight attendant into upgrading his seat.

Unfortunately, the people next to Bond are perfectly ordinary and normal, and don't snore or go overboard with the alcohol making them pass out, or worse, vomit. Bond has quite a pleasant flight, and is seated next to a window, so he mainly spends his time looking out of the window or sleeping.

Upon arriving in the airport in Shanghai, Bond all but runs out of the plane, to the luggage belt, grabs his suitcase and gets outside as quickly as possible to hail a taxi, which is almost impossible. He gives the driver his address in his rusty Mandarin and settles in the back of the taxi when he remembers to turn on his phone again.

When it finally connects to a provider, he gets a text message, from Tanner again: "Car waiting for you. Ask at service counter at airport. -BT." Cursing under his breath, he gives the driver directions to turn back around, who finally does so, albeit under much protest and only after Bond has promised him a tip. He shoves money into the man's hands, retrieves his suitcase from the trunk himself and smashes it close, making the driver flip him his fingers. Bond grins at him as he walks back into the enormous building and tries to make his way to the service counter through the mass of people. He has to queue, and wonders what kind of car Tanner has hooked him up with.

Fifteen minutes later, he has the keys and is looking at a dark blue Mercedes. That will do.

Five minutes later, when he is on the highway, driving a few miles faster than speed limit allows, the Mercedes does turn out to be perfect, comfortable, and powerful. He almost smiles while making his way to his hotel. When he gets there, it's early evening and he has dinner in the excellent hotel restaurant. He decides against doing anything else the same evening in favour of being rested the next day, and likely staying up the whole night. He could use some sleep.

He has a good night's sleep and wakes up ludicrously late next morning and decides to have room service bring him a full English breakfast. He only gets out of bed to open the curtains so he can look at the city while eating. The food is excellent, and after having eaten until his stomach almost bursts, he takes a shower and shaves, and puts on his navy blue suit.

He looks at himself in the mirror, and compares what he sees with what he saw three days ago. His eyes were bloodshot, and he had bags under his eyes which felt like they reached to his toes. Now his eyes are still a bit sunken, but less so after a few good meals and some good nights of sleep, and much less alcohol in his system. He grimaces as he reaches into his luggage for his very ordinary aspirin instead of hard drugs to dull the pain in his shoulder, which he hardly even feels anymore. The wounds are healing quite nicely, too.

He gets bored after a while and still hasn't received any heads-up about when and where this Patrice fellow will arrive, so he takes the Mercedes for a spin, playing music on the radio and enjoying the speed of a good car. He spends his day enjoying the city, and mainly looking at all the people that either live in it or visit it. People-watching is fascinating. He likes guessing at their occupations and personal lives.

In the evening, he takes a swim in the phenomenal rooftop pool, from where he can see the entire city and it's a magnificent sight as the sun slowly sets and the neon-letter advertisements light up the city and launches its inhabitants into its undoubtedly exciting night life. Bond pushes his endurance to its limit in the pool. Eventually, when he is utterly exhausted, he heaves himself up to the edge of the pool and rests, chest heaving, the chlorine burning in his eyes, and he feels alive again.

When showered, re-dressed, and having a drink at the hotel bar, he finally receives a text. "EWA FLIGHT 226. 9 PM." Finally.

He drives to the airport in silence, getting focused on the job at hand. He arrives, dons his outfit – not his most spectacular one, just sunglasses and a cap, and his new coat which is warm and comfortable, and waits together with the mob of family members, partners and travel guides. When it takes a while for him to spot Patrice, he has to take a few deep breaths, and he clenches his fists when he sees the assassin. He inconspicuously follows him, and sees him enter a taxi. He follows at a safe distance in the Mercedes, although getting a bit closer when the traffic gets more crowded. He would never forgive himself if he lost Patrice now. The taxi pulls up at a hotel and Patrice exits, not bothering to look around to see if anyone's following him, so Bond parks and waits to see what he does.

As Patrice walks towards the hotel, Bond pulls his custom Walther PPK out of his pocket, takes off his glove and smiles as he sees the three lights flash green.

When he looks up again, Patrice enters the hotel, large and heavy-seeming suitcase in one hand. The security guard looks up from what seems to be a magazine and Bond sees Patrice's hand disappearing inside his jacket and he knows he will pull out a gun. Bond closes his eyes briefly and stops himself from feeling sorry for the guard. He looks up again and sees Patrice disappearing round a corner, so Bond gets out of his Mercedes and follows him at a brisk pace.

He enters the hotel at a jog, gets up the escalator and sees another security guard lying in a pool of blood. Bond carefully sidesteps him as to avoid stepping into it, and halts at the next corner. He peeks around and sees Patrice waiting for the elevators. The man looks tense, and Bond gets a closer look at the suitcase he is holding. It looks like a regular travel case, but Bond doubts its contents are as ordinary as the appearance makes believe.

Bond pats his coat's pocket to ascertain his gun is still in there, and reminds himself to get a new holster for under his suit again. Those things are incredibly useful. When Patrice enters the elevator, and doesn't turn around, Bond congratulates himself with his luck and sprints at it as it starts ascending, jumps and manages to get a hold of it.

He hopes Patrice will get out at a single-digit floor, but the elevator doesn't seem to slow down and Bond feels sweat forming on his forehead about halfway up the building. At three-quarters his shoulder is searing again, and his right hand slips, but he manages to get a grip once again. Finally, finally, the bloody thing stops and Patrice steps out, and Bond swings to the left, and pulls himself up at one of the metal bars there. He shimmies along the edge of the other elevator exit, pointedly not looking 100 storeys down and pulls open the door, and finally gets himself to safety in the hallway. He guesses at the door to the right of him and opens it to see an overwhelming amount of glass walls and dizzying colours. After a moment he realises the colours come from the reflections of the neon advertisements on the outside of the building. He can't help but admire the play of light, before he pushes open the first glass door and sees a dark form moving.

Bond freezes, and only when the silhouette of Patrice resumes his business, does he crawl through the chink of the door, and crouches, slowly getting closer and closer, until he can see what Patrice is doing. He seems to be assembling a gun, and he has mounted a sort of device against the glass wall in front of him. Patrice places the gun to his side for a moment and Bond gets a closer look at it. It appears to be a silenced sniper rifle. Patrice removes the device from the glass and Bond can't see what its purpose was, until Patrice sticks the loop of the rifle through it.

Tanner's words come back to him - Patrice was supposed to be on a job, and Bond figures it's another liquidation. Bond casts a glance at the building opposite of Patrice, but can't see what's going on there. He advances until he is only one door away from his target and waits for Patrice to make a move. Bond would rather have Patrice finish his job, so his employer might not be alarmed until much later.

A few seconds later, Patrice pulls the trigger and the glass wall in the building opposite of him shatters and Bond makes his move, but apparently Patrice had seen him, because he immediately swings around after firing his shot and tries to hit Bond with the butt of his rifle. Bond ducks, and grabs the gun, and they grapple for it, and they slam into another glass wall, which shatters under the impact. The exchange a couple of hits and then Bond sees his chance, and launches Patrice into the air with a hard hit to his stomach, and Bond lurches forward to grab his wrist as he falls.

"Who's got the list!" Bond furiously yells at the man who is only still alive by the grace of the strength of Bond's right arm.

"TELL ME!" Bond raises his voice even more in the raging winds. He feels his grip slipping -- he should have taken his gloves off. "Who are you working for!" Patrice doesn't respond and Bond doesn't dare to move forward more, as he's afraid he will tip over the edge or Patrice will pull him down with him. So when he can't hold it any longer and Patrice doesn't seem to try to save his own life, Bond has to let go. He watches for a moment as the man screams and falls to his death. Bond swallows, and crawls back, sitting upright, leaning against another wall behind him. He pulls some pieces of glass from the front of his coat and catches the gaze of a tall woman standing in the room Patrice just fired a shot at. Bond wonders if Patrice missed his target after all, but then sees a slumped form sitting in a chair and a painting with red splashes on it, which look a _lot_ like blood.

The woman looks at him curiously, rather than in a threatening way, and Bond can't help but think she's beautiful. For a moment it looks like she smiles, but then she turns and walks away. Bond wonders who she is, but then his glance falls on the suitcase Patrice brought with him. There _has_ to be a clue in there.

Bond rummages around in its contents – the glass cutter, extra bullets, another silencer and several other supplemental gun parts. He sees a curious-looking circle in the foam and tries to pry his fingers under it, and it easily comes away. Below it is a chip, and Bond tries to read what's on the rim of it.

Macau.


	6. Interlude

M is working at home, on her laptop. She briefly wonders about Bond; how he is doing, but then she shrugs it off and opens her mail to check if there's anything requiring her immediate attention or whether she can go to bed. Then a screen, which looks like a slot machine pops up. It says "click here". She hesitates for a second but then decides to click anyway. Her internet browser opens and loads a YouTube video.

She feels herself grow pale.

She immediately rings Tanner, who picks up after two seconds. "Tanner. He's posted the first five names. Their cover's blown. They're in danger. Get them out now."

She hangs up and rubs her temples. She'll have to brief Bond and also Moneypenny, who flew out this morning to assist Bond again, but maybe more importantly and most regrettably, she'll have to let Mallory know, and he in turn, the PM.

**

On the evening Patrice and Sévérine are in Shanghai, Silva uploads the first video to YouTube and sends _her_ the link.

YouTube name: vials. Not his strongest anagram, but then again, the name Silva wouldn't mean anything to her, he supposes. He changes the settings to 'only available through link' and when he hits 'upload' it is a manner of seconds before the video is online.

He puts the url in the code he has created and sends the file to her personal email.

Once again, all he can do is wait.

He does not have anything else to do right now, so he crosses his legs on his desk and folds his hands in his laps. If he is right about her, and he will be, she will open her email quite quickly. She likes to be updated on everything she needs to know, she will want to have full knowledge. That is exactly why he knows this will work. He is absolutely sure that she will not be able to resist clicking the link and watching the video.

He wonders if she knew him as well as he knows her now. She probably knew that he would never betray the service and the country, even if he did so for the wrong reason: protecting _her_. Otherwise she would never have risked sending one of her best agents, if not _the_ best, an agent with a lot of information that would be compromising if spilled, into the hands of the enemy.

A notification on his laptop saves him from drowning in his memories and thoughts.

The video has been watched.


	7. Chapter 5

The moment Patrice fell to his death and Sévérine looked into the eyes of his killer, she was enchanted. Not so much by the man, but by the opportunity the man presented. The opportunity to have some fun.

Sévérine sighs as she prepares for a day of staking out in the casino once again. She supposes this mystery man will come into the casino today to redeem the chip that Patrice was supposed to deliver, although it seemed that Silva had planned for someone else to bring it in already. Did he really care so little about Patrice? It could very well be possible. He is... He seems possible of doing anything that is necessary. That is his appeal, of course.

If she knew then how she would end up, would she still have taken his offer? She supposes it is still better than being abused every night, and in truth, it isn’t so bad.

She smokes another cigarette, takes a long drag, and waits. She hopes he comes soon. She desires action.

**

The next morning, Bond is woken by the ringing of his cell phone. He groggily reaches for it, as it is lying on the table beside the very comfortable kingsize bed. He wants to put the sound off, but then sees it's M who's calling and decides against that, and picks up.

"Double-oh seven speaking."

"Yes, it's M. I wanted to let you know that whoever's got the list, they posted the first five names. We have started operations to get all the agents out of their positions." She pauses for a moment, and Bond remains silent.

After five seconds or so, when neither of them has spoken, she continues. "So I'm calling to say that speed is necessary. Are you–"

Bond interrupts her. "I've terminated Patrice, and I am confident I have a lead to get me to his employer. Is there anything else?"

"No."

"Goodbye, M."

**

After sleeping some more, he checks out of his hotel and drives to another hotel, which is closer to Macau. He starts getting ready, and has showered and is getting his shaving kit from his luggage when there's a knock on the door. It's the field agent, responsible for getting him shot. He wonders whether to let her in and then decides to at least hear what she has to say. He also reminds himself that he really should get to know her name.

"Room service," she says.

"I didn't order anything," he says in a friendly and pleasant manner, "not even you."

She turns out to be there to brief him on the names that have been posted, despite the phone call from M earlier this day. He tells her that, and she smiles and starts hearing him out on his knowledge on Mallory. He does not disappoint her, interrupting her when she thinks she's sharing all the secrets. "He was a Lieutenant Colonel in Northern Ireland, Hereford Regiment. He spent three months at the hands of the IRA."

When she takes his razor out of his hands, he lets her.

"Now you look the part," she says contently when she's done.

"What part is that?" He is aware she is trying to seduce him, or at least showing him she can be fun and outgoing, but he doesn't feel like it. He wants to be done with the assignment and start thinking about returning to his old life. If it even turns out he _will_ do that, after everything that has happened.

"Old dog, new tricks."

**

Sévérine gets a heads-up when one of her men at the entrance spots a blond, tall man, and blond, tall men are a rarity in China, so she hopes she gets lucky for once and that it's the man she saw yesterday. When he approaches the counter, she gets a better look at him from her balcony viewpoint.

It's definitely him. He smirks at the girl behind the counter and shoves exactly one chip over the polished wood towards her. She can't see the girl's face very well, but she supposes her smile must have frozen on her face.

A few moments later, some men from the casino approach the stranger and hand him the case with the money. He does the routine, polite check: opening it, checking it quickly, and closing it again. Not looking at all would make him seem overly confident, and counting all the money would make him seem suspicious, which is never a good thing, especially not in this line of work.

He accepts the case, gives a terse smile, accepts the chips 'offered by the house' and makes his way towards one of the gambling tables. Sévérine thinks it's time for her to show her face.

She descends the stairs and lights another cigarette.

"Now you can afford to buy me a drink." She wonders how he will respond to that.

As it turns out, he looks her up and down – he undoubtedly recognised her from 10 miles away but wants to give the impression he did not. Likely a spy. When he speaks, she prefixes 'British' to ‘spy’.

"Maybe I'll even stretch to two."

He leans in conspiratorially. "I'm guessing I have got about four million euros in here."

She nods approvingly. Honestly, she thought Patrice got paid more. "Not bad," she raises her eyebrows at the blond man. "I like this game."

He smiles at her. "Why don't we play another?"

She wrinkles her nose. "I don't gamble, I am... not very lucky."

"A little like our friend in Shanghai," he says, not looking at her, but somewhere behind her. That was stupid of him. No doubt he has an accomplice hidden somewhere.

She continues, regardless. "I have been waiting to see who would redeem the chip. You made such a bold entrance into our little drama."

"Did I over-complicate the plot?"

Ha bloody ha. He is one of those men who think they have the right to possess anything pretty, everything they desire. Shortly said; one of those assholes. Unless he is also playing a game, just as she is. But not a gambling game, no – they play the only game that matters.

She smiles and says, "who doesn't like the occasional plot-twist, Mr..?"

"Bond. James Bond."

She nods in acknowledgement of him. "Sévérine," she says.

"So, Mr Bond," she continues, "shall we discuss your next performance over a drink?"

"I'd like that." He looks behind her again, and then she realises that–  

"Will your friends be joining us?"

  1. So he caught on. "That, I am afraid, is inevitable."



When they walk towards the bar, he follows her, and she takes a perverse pleasure in that. When they just pass a table at which one woman in a pretty golden dress is seated, she hears this James Bond mutter something and then a splash. She doesn't bother looking around to let him know she heard.

**

Silva paces up and down. Again. The part of his mind that is not completely occupied with figuring out the next move, makes a mental note to stop doing that or at least take of your shoes, _idiota_ , because you will wear holes in them.

So. The current state of affairs. He just got a heads-up from one of Sévérine's bodyguards, that she took the stranger who redeemed the chip to the bar with her. The guard also sent him a photo of the man. When he remembers that, he sits down behind his laptop and sends the photo to his computer. He is breathing shallowly, nervously, for a reason beyond his grasp.

He uploads the picture to his database, and rhythmically taps the table until the search is done. He clears his throat and leans forward. The name "Arlington Beech" and "James Bond" pop up. He has absolutely seen the name James Bond before, so he selects that one.

Oh. Of course. When he researched MI6's current employees, he paid special attention to the 00-agents. He kind of hoped she would send a 00-agent to him, but had not actually expected it, not after the 003 fiasco. She was incompetent.

This James Bond is 007, to be precise. Shit, shit, shit.

He scrolls through all the documents in which James Bond’s name is mentioned and his eye falls on 'obituary'. Curious, he clicks on it. It's a clipping from the _The Times_.

He reads it completely.

**Commander James Bond, C.M.G., R.N. - Obituary**

_A senior officer of the Ministry of Defence, Commander James Bond, C.M.G., R.N. is missing, believed killed, while on an official mission in Turkey._

_Commander Bond saw active service abroad in numerous theatres of conflict. Despite unconfirmed and unsubstantiated reports in the foreign press of his often controversial means of mission handling, little is actually known about Bond's personal life. An unofficial source at MI6 described Commander Bond as a classic cold-war warrior, his brief entry in Who's Who is a testament to his discretion. In it he named his career only as being in the "HM Diplomatic Service."_

_Described by the head of MI6 as "An exemplar of British fortitude", Commander Bond's legacy remains a remarkable inspiration to those serving the country._

_James Bond was born of a Scottish father, Andrew Bond of Glencoe, and Swiss mother, Monique Delacroix, from the Canton de Vaud. His early education, from which he inherited a first-class command of French and German, was entirely abroad. A climbing accident in the Aiguilles Rouges above Chaumonix, left the eleven year old Bond bereft of both parents. James Bond came under the guardianship of his aunt, since deceased, Miss Charmian Bond, whom he then lived with near Canterbury in Kent._

_At the age of twelve, the young James Bond passed his entry exams into Eton, transferring after only two terms to Fettes –his father's old school, where he excelled at boxing and Judo._

_Following active service in the Royal Navy, aboard the United Kingdom's last operation aircraft carrier the Ark Royal and the HMS Invincible, Bond distinguished himself with the SBS in Iraq and Afghanistan before entering the SIS._

_A colleague of James Bond writes: I was happy and proud to serve Commander Bond in a close capacity during the past three years at the Ministry of Defence. If our fears for him are justified, may I suggest these simple words for his epitaph? Many of the junior staff here feel they represent his philosophy:_

_'I shall not waste any days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.'_

_Commander Bond was unmarried at the time of his death. James Bond born 2nd March 1968 died October 20th 2012._

Died in Turkey? He ponders that for a while. The same agent Patrice shot, then? Patrice told him that the agent suddenly fell of the train, and when he looked around he saw, in the distance, a figure with what seemed a sniper rifle. Not one of Silva's people, or Silva would have known. Logical conclusion, this person was also with MI6 but shot the wrong person. Patrice also did describe the agent as being blond and tall, and, well, this James Bond is definitely blond and tall. And yet, he came back to MI6.

Well. _There_ 's a difference.

**

Sévérine feels she played the helpless girl part very well, at least when Bond found out about her past. She had hoped to not have to come clean about that (although Bond did all the work for her, when she remained silent, he filled in the blanks, which he did quite well, she has to admit), but it is what it is.

When she is driven to the Chimera by her bodyguards, she replays the exchange in her head.

"I know when a woman is afraid and pretending not to be," he had said. That caught her off guard. He turned out to be a better people judge than she had expected him to be.

"How much do you know about fear?" she asked him.

"All there is."

That statement made her curious. Such a shame there isn't more time, as she would love to know more about this man. Even though he seemed such an asshole before.

"Not like this," she said however, "not like... him."

"I can help you."

Wonderful. She angled the bait in front of his face and he rose to it. That went easy, almost too easy. She had to remind herself that he was a secret agent, and might have caught onto her game as well.

"I don't think so," she says.

"Let me try."

"How?"

"Bring me to him," he says, his blue eyes smoldering.

"Can you kill him?" She manages to make her voice shake just that tiny bit to make it convincing.

"Yes," is the soft reply.

That isn't a promise yet. "Will you?"

"Someone usually dies."

That is good enough for her. She laughs. "Perhaps you can." Then she casually eyes her bodyguards, and Bond follows her gaze. "When I leave," she says casually, "they're going to kill you."

His face grows gloomy a bit. Time to say her goodbye, then.

"If you survive, I'm on the Chimera. North harbour, berth seven. We cast off in an hour." She flutters her eyelashes at him. "Very nice to have met you, Mr Bond. Good luck." And she walks away.

When Bond arrives on the Chimera, she is in the shower. She hears a door open and close and she is almost sure it is him. She hopes he doesn't take advantage of her, but when he joins her in the shower, she suppresses her disappointment and kisses him back.

Then he leaves her alone.


	8. Chapter 6

They are almost here.

Silva has received an activated radio signal, sent to London, from the approximate position of the Chimera. Clever man, that Bond, and it’s so nice of him to perfectly play along with Silva's plans.

Silva waits in his personal chambers for them to arrive. He has researched James Bond. He suspects he is one of M's favourites. He has also managed to find the audio from the exchange between M and the agent, Eve Moneypenny, apparently, just before she took the shot at Bond. Even though Moneypenny insisted she hadn't a clear shot, M ordered her to take it, thus sacrificing one of her best agents.

He envies Bond, and at the same times, he hates him for being able to return to MI6, return to her.

From his window, he sees Bond and Sévérine arrive together. She is wearing one of her prettiest dresses. Silva grimaces and wonders whether they have slept together. He wouldn’t put it past Sévérine, but apparently James Bond sleeps around a lot. As ordered, in advance, Sévérine is taken away. He hopes she plays her part well.

His men take Bond into his server room. Good.

Silva forces himself to sit down and wait, only to make Bond uncomfortable. He closes his eyes and recites his little speech to himself. His goal for today is for Bond to take him to London with him. It would be great if he could make the man as uncomfortable as possible, or even try to plant a seed of doubt about M's intentions and her... _purity_ of character.

**

In advance, he had not anticipated Bond to make such an impression on him. He had not anticipated that he would recognise himself _this_ much in the man. He had not anticipated him to not be effected by Silva's actions as much as he had hoped. He had not anticipated him to be so careless, as to not even move a muscle when he shoots Sévérine. He had not anticipated him to rise up to Silva's challenges so eagerly. He had not anticipated that Bond would not at all react to Silva's unwelcome administrations.

In other words... he had not anticipated Bond to make him, _Silva_ , uncomfortable.

He is almost glad when MI6's helicopters arrive to take them away. He needs time to think.

**

Bond is seething.

He enters a different helicopter than Silva and tries not to show how shaken he is. Silva... they are so much alike.

He hates what happened to Sévérine. She did not deserve to die. But he could not show it to Silva – he had to do everything to not appear weak. In truth, he almost lost it, and his faith in MI6, when Silva read his marksmanship scores out loud. He believed him immediately, Bond knew there was no possibility in the _world_ that he passed the tests and he even expected it, however, it would have practically been suicide, had he shown Silva these feelings.

He wonders what M exactly has done to Silva. Part of him would rather _not_ know, but another part of him is almost desperate to find out.

Bond feels like it depends on the answer to that question whether he can ever work at MI6 again.

They exchange the helicopters for a fast jet at the airport in Shanghai, and he is seated a few meters away from him. M would probably kill him if she found out Bond approached the man voluntarily, but at the moment, he does not care about M. He opens the door from the cockpit and enters the room where Silva is seated, chained to the wall, eyes closed. Two men have assault rifles aimed at him.

Bond snickers inwardly. As if they would shoot. The walls of the airplane are too thin and would rupture immediately if pierced by so much as _one_ bullet. Tasers would suit the men better. Bond gestures for them to leave, and they head towards the cockpit. Bond takes place on a chair opposite of Silva, who has opened his eyes and seems to curiously absorb _everything_ that is happening around him. His manners remind Bond of himself and he remembers Silva used to be an agent, too.

**

Bond sends the men away, so Silva and he are alone.

Silva wonders why. He would have at least hoped he scared the man so much as to never voluntarily be in a room again. On the other hand, it might be nice to have someone to talk to. He was getting quite bored looking into the loops of two rifles. As if they'd ever fire them. He grins, then looks at Bond, who seems slightly put off by his expression.

"So," Bond starts, finally sitting down. Interesting. Not physically putting himself above Silva then. Although, Bond isn't the one chained to a less than comfortable chair. Silva shuffles on the seat as his backside is starting to hurt a fair bit.

"If you want me to touch you again," Silva decides to say when Bond remains quiet and the silence begins to feel awkward, "you will have to unchain me."

"Nice try," Bond says, crossing his arms. Defending himself? Or making his point clear? "But I can think I can live another day without you stroking me again."

"Oh, James, do watch out." Silva's lips curl upwards. "You might just regret that statement later."

Bond's mouth contorts in a grimace. Silva wonders when he will tell him to cut the crap. Bond is obviously here for a reason, but Silva can't imagine Bond has anything interesting to offer him, so he can basically jerk the man around as much as he likes.

"Well, since it's you," Silva continues, "I might make an exception for you. So if you change your mind, just let me know." He shoots Bond an angelic smile, and gets a sarcastic 1-second-long smirk in return.

It remains silent for a moment and Silva turns to look out of the window, although keeping Bond in the corner of his eye, and starts whistling 'Boum'. He has to say, he is still quite curious as to why Bond is here.

"What kind of music do you like, James?"

"Why do you want to know?"

Silva shrugs. "I don't. I just thought it would be polite to make small talk. I believe the British take a quite large amount of pride in their politeness, no?"

"Right," Bond says. " _Every_ single British person is an uptight prick, you've got it completely right."

"You are just proving my point," Silva sighs. "You are just incapable of having a bit of _fun_. Isn't that right, James?"

Silva can see the man clenching and unclenching his fists. Then he notices he still hasn't re-buttoned his shirt again, so Silva entertains himself by staring at the delightfully exposed patch of skin.

Bond notices his gaze, but he doesn't turn away, rather leans forward a bit so Silva can look into his shirt. When his eyes travel up to meet Bond's, he sees the man is well and truly smiling now.

"Oh, what, you want to turn the tables now?" Silva sniffs and turns towards the window as much as his chains allow him. He can still keep an eye on him in the reflection of the glass, however. Bond reaches in his pocket and leans forward even more, and unchains Silva's left hand, which he chains to his own right. Then he unlocks Silva’s right wrist.

"Stand up," Bond says. "Stretch your legs a bit. We still have a long flight to go."

Now isn't the time to toy around, as Silva started getting cramps. When he stands up the blood rushes to his head and he sways a bit. Bond moves to cross his arms again but Silva keeps his left arm stiff, not allowing him. Bond rolls his eyes and takes a few steps, pulling Silva along. They can take about 10 steps, because the space they are in is very small, but Silva gratefully walks up and down a couple of times.

After a couple more rounds, Bond says, "enough."

Silva walks back to his seat without protesting, and Bond chains Silva’s right wrist back to the chair, which is bolted to the floor of the plane, before he unlocks himself from Silva. Apparently, he has been trained well. Silva looks at his face while Bond is having a spot of trouble with the key, and sees that his lashes are really long.

Bond sits back down and crosses his arms again. Silva wants to put his hands in his lap, as he usually does, but finds the chains too short and unforgiving. For form's sake, he sighs and rattles them unconvincingly. Bond smirks at him, before he asks, "so, what is _your_ favourite kind of music?"

Silva raises one platinum blond eyebrow. "Why do _you_ want to know?"

"I don't," Bond parrots him, "just thought I would once again fortify my British attitude and attention to politeness, after taking care of my... guests. After all, it would break my heart to disappoint you."

Bond does a good job at keeping a straight face, but Silva detects a glimmer in his eyes he has not seen there before. Silva smiles at him before he looks away. _Well, good for you,_ he thinks. It's no use for the agent to be so tense, since Silva isn't going to try anything, as long as this plane's destination stays and firmly remains Heathrow airport, London.

It's usually satisfying to trap his opponents into working _with_ or _for_ him without their knowledge, but Silva finds it kind of a waste of Bond's obvious talent. He allows his mind to drift off for a moment, to think about what they could achieve together, if they had both been agents on a job. Then he snaps back to the present and tries to say something, but find he has to clear his throat first.

"On the topic of _not_ disappointing me, would you _please_ allow me something to drink?" He emphasises the 'please' and Bond once again rolls his eyes before he gets up and walks towards a cabinet, from which he takes two half litre bottles of mineral water before he sits back again. He unscrews the cap of one and holds it in front of Silva, who tilts his head back. Bond places the bottle at his lips and Silva drinks half of it in one go. When Bond holds it up questioningly, Silva shakes his head.

Bond screws the cap back on, then opens the other bottle and empties it. He breathes out deeply and throws the bottle in the bin on the other side of the room.

Silva follows the curve of the throw and then looks at Bond, giving him a mockingly meant approving look, like a parent proud of an ugly drawing their 3-year old kid made, while it's only scratches in contrasting colours.

"So," Silva says. He decides to play the straightforward card. "Why are you here? Was the pilot being annoying? If he was, give him a reprimand, because he should be focusing on the..." His wit (either that or his English vocabulary) seems to leave him. He wanted to think of an aerial variant of 'keep your eyes on the road' and hastily fills it in with "clouds."

As if on cue, the plane shakes, apparently entering a nasty spot of turbulence. After a few seconds, the pilot seems to have the jet under control again and they continue flying as if nothing has happened.

Bond gives him a look, both his eyebrows raised now. He doesn't say anything.

Silva sighs. "Look, I get the hint, you are a man of few words, but I am getting terribly bored and we are stuck in the same plane, the same room, for at least nine more hours."

Bond stretches his legs and crosses them, leaning against the back of his chair. "Okay. So, yeah, I got bored in the cockpit. And the pilot, he isn't a talkative fellow either."

Silva allows himself a celebratory inward smile. Success.

"Do tell, then, what your favourite music is."

Bond huffs (Silva wouldn't call it a chuckle or a laugh, it's too... sarcastic-sounding for that) and uncrosses his arms.

"Let's make a deal," Bond says, after chewing his lip for a second.

Silva nods at him, eyes following his movements.

"For every answer I give," he continues, "you have to answer one of my questions, too."

Silva takes a moment to pretend to think about that. "Sounds quite reasonable. What happens if either of us doesn’t answer?"

"The other gets a free question. And the penaliser has, of course, find a way to live with the everlasting shame."

Silva chuckles, a sound he always finds pleasant to make, because it reverberates deep in his chest. "Deal. I would shake your hand on it, but..." He rattles the chain on his right hand again.

"Ha bloody ha," Bond mutters. "All right, my favourite music is... probably old rock. I don't like most new music. I like to hear the instruments protest, to hear the vocalist gasp for breath. I like my music old-fashioned."

Silva has to say, he is genuinely and pleasantly surprised at the level of detail in which Bond answers. Then he nods. "Okay. Good answer."

"I'm not looking for your approval, here," Bond suddenly bites. He crosses his arms again, and Silva decides to keep count of how often he does that, and whether it _does_ seem to be a –subconscious? – defence mechanism. Bond sighs heavily. "All right. My turn."

In the split second before Bond re-opens his mouth to ask a question, Silva wonders whether he will go straight for the target or whether he will dance around it for a while. It turns out to be the latter, because Bond asks, "who is the painter, or sculptor, whatever, you hate most?"

Licking his lips, Silva ponders on that (weird) question for a few seconds. "I think... I think, Caravaggio, not because of the way he paints, but because he was an asshole." Silva sees Bond wants to inquire further, but Silva makes a disapproving noise. "Uh-uh. If you want to know why, that's another question."

"Is not."

"Is."

"Not. It's an explanation to your original answer."

"And a digression."

They stare at each other, an icy exchange that seems to go on forever, before Bond finally mutters, "fine."

Cheerily, Silva asks his next question. "Where were you born?"

"West-Berlin."

"I knew it," Silva mutters.

"What?"

"That you weren't born in Britain, because you seem to loathe its peculiar customs and traditions far too much to be true Briton. Also, thank you for your question."

Bond opens his mouth to protest but then sees Silva's blissfully victorious smirk and seems to let it go.

"Please don't let me down on this one, how do you drink your tea?"

Bond rolls his eyes. Silva thinks that that will start to hurt after a while. Regardless of whether his ocular muscles can still handle the continuous strain, he answers, in an exaggerated RP accent that almost makes Silva want to cringe, "I just _love_ to drink my Earl Grey with one sugar and a splash of milk."

Silva inclines his head, mouthing a 'thank you' at Bond, whose features seem to finally relax a bit.

"Your turn," Silva says.

"Right." Bond taps his index finger against his other upper arm, eyes unfocused. "Assuming you _did_ live in the UK before you went to Hong Kong, from what age to what age did you live there?"

Silva crosses his legs, shifting on his seat again. His ass is starting to seriously hurt right now. He looks at the ceiling, inspecting the slightly off-white colour. "I moved to England when I was sixteen, when my grandmother died and I could not stay in Spain, and I officially moved to Hong Kong when I was nineteen, which was in... nineteen eighty eight." He drawls out the vowels. "As I told you before, I worked in station H starting eighty six, but the first two years I flew back and forth between London and Hong Kong." He tells Bond more than just strictly the answer to the question, encouraging Bond to do the same – hopefully, subconsciously, because that would mean Silva is having an influence on him after all.

When Silva finally looks at Bond again, his mouth is slightly open. "What?" Silva asks unwillingly. "You got to work with MI6 when you were _sixteen_?"

Silva shrugs.

"What kind of jobs did you _do_?"

Silva looks at him incredulously. "Didn't you pay attention to the room you were in, what... _Five_ hours ago? Or are you secretly deaf, and didn't you listen to my carefully prepared speech? That hurts, you know."

Bond seems to have returned to state of normalcy and looks at Silva with an annoyed expression on his face.

Silva ignores it and continues. "I lost track of whose turn it is."

"Yours, if we ignore the discussion that took place after my last question."

"Right. What did you do before you were in MI6?"

Bond snorts. "As if you don't know. Didn't you pay attention to the room we were just–"

"Yes, yes. I was just mimicking your British politeness by pretending I didn't look up everything about you, Royal Navy Commander Bond of the HMS, what was it, Invincible?"

"I figured you had looked me up, but I didn't think you learned my file by heart. I am almost flattered, weren't it for the fact that it is slightly creeping me out."

"Wait till I bring out the chocolates and flowers," Silva says matter-of-factly, and throws his head back in laughter at Bond's terrified face. After a second, Bond joins him with a low chuckle.

"Never thought I would have so much fun with a terrorist," Bond says.

Silva breaks of his laugh immediately. "Way to kill the mood, James," he says sourly.

"Would you cut the crap with that whole first-name-thing you're doing? It's getting annoying," Bond says, sounding slightly upset.

"No, and thank you for that wonderful question, James. My turn.”


	9. Chapter 7

Bond sighs loudly and gets up. Silva fears he went too far, but Bond makes his trip to the cabinet again, conducts a short search, and then pulls out two glasses and a flat flask with dark brown liquid. He turns back, sees Silva, seems to remember he is in chains and puts the glasses back where he found them.

"I believe," Bond starts, "I'm not supposed to give _terrorists_ –" Silva shoots him a foul look "–alcohol, but I think I am already breaking protocol by freely chatting about our pasts here, so..."

Still standing, Bond raises the flask, mimics toasting, and mutters, "cheers, to our health, and all that bullshit." He takes a big gulp, coughing in the elbow of his jacket immediately afterwards.

"Give me that," Silva says immediately, "let me show you how it's done." He wriggles his eyebrows at Bond, who hesitantly puts the flask at Silva's lips and tilts it back. Silva drinks as much as Bond allows and has apparently overestimated his skills, because tears form at the corners of his eyes from trying so hard not to spit it all out and cough like a madman – that shit _burns_ the throat.

"Right. Go go go, ask your question," Bond mutters. He takes another, somewhat more carefully dosed, swig of the flask and squints.

"Suddenly in a hurry?" Silva asks, squinting too.

When Bond moves uncomfortably, Silva suddenly knows why. "Aha. You have thought of the perfect question, haven't you?"

"No," Bond bites, "we just haven't got all day. Come on, otherwise I am going to set a time limit on this ridiculous game."

Silva inwardly celebrates that Bond didn't call him out on his 'haven't you' which would absolutely classify as a question, and says, "well, _you_ came up with this, indeed, frankly _ridiculous_ game."

Seeing that Bond is once again clenching and unclenching the hand that does not hold the flask, Silva clears his throat, now starting to enjoy the burning sensation that the alcohol caused, and is starting to form a nice pit of warmth in his stomach.

"Okay, how about this one..." Silva chews on his lower lip. _Mierda_ , he can't think of an interesting question at the moment. Or rather, of course he can, but he does not want to bring out the big guns just yet, so eventually Silva decides to ask another bullshit question to try and gauge Bond's reaction.

"Why don't you, James, tell me about your first job as a double-oh agent?"

Bond's gaze turns on him and Silva has to do his best not to feel scorched by the man's ludicrously blue eyes.

"Do you mean my first job _as_ a double-oh agent or my job to _become_ a double-oh agent?"

Silva shrugs. "Whatever you like to tell me about."

"You ask the question, I am giving you a chance to be more specific, and you turn it down?" Bond says suspiciously.

Silva casts his eyes upwards. "Sí, and I am cutting you slack right now, so why not take advantage of it? Come on, just tell me about one of your first jobs."

Bond looks down, then takes another sip of the whisky before he puts the flask at Silva's lips again, who eagerly drinks. Then he takes a breath and starts speaking. "I was in Madagascar, and it was a cooperative mission, but my partner blew it. Our target, a bomber named Mollaka, saw it when my partner touched the mic in his ear and looked at him directly." Bond shakes his head. "He was a fool, and I had to go after him. I chased him through industrial grounds but hell, that guy ran fast." His eyes begin to glimmer. "Eventually he ran up a crane and I followed him. I didn't have the time to be scared, but eventually I had to make a jump from one crane arm to another, and shit, the adrenaline coursing through my body...

"Well, I ended up cornering him in an embassy and blowing the whole building up, but I suppose you read that article somewhere." He remains silent, looking down, before he looks at Silva again. "Satisfied?"

"Oh, absolutely," Silva suavely says.

"Right," Bond says, sarcastically drawing out the vowel. "Okay, my turn."

Silva motions awkwardly for the flask, his hands besides his legs. He cracks his neck sideways and stretches his back, before tilting his head back. He looks down the flask at Bond's face, and they awkwardly lock gazes. Then Bond moves away, taking the whisky with him and Silva swallows.

Bond sits back down. "What was your first job for MI6?"

“My first actual job for MI6 was..." Silva sighs deeply and rolls his eyes, then mutters, "buying new hardware for the Q branch."

Bond laughs out loud, a clear sound, unexpectedly making Silva's heart jump in his chest.

"You were sent to buy _computers_? So, what, you were basically an errand boy?"

" _First_ job you asked. I got promoted to full Q branch employee soon afterwards," Silva corrects him haughtily.

Bond takes another swig from the flask and lets out another short laugh.

Unwillingly, Silva can't constrain his curiosity, and asks, "what?"

"I... I had just supposed that you would have a much more... glamorous past. I personally don't know an agent who entered MI6 by choice. Most people I know ended up there by accident." Bond tips the whisky back again and his eyes grow cloudy, as if he is remembering something. Silva decides to give him a second before asking the next question.

Then the door to the cockpit is thrown open and Silva blinks in surprise. The co-pilot (hopefully the _co-_ pilot indeed and not the actual pilot) is standing with his hands on his hips and looks surprised to see Bond and Silva sitting so close to each other, and Bond with a bottle of alcohol in his hand as well. “Is everything all right here?” he asks, sounding suspicious. “I thought I heard a weird sound.”

Bond shoots Silva a warning glance, and Silva almost can't suppress a chuckle. It's like they entered a conspiracy and no one can know, not even Mommy. That thought suddenly weighs down on his good mood and his face grows gloomy.

Turning towards the co-pilot, Bond says, “we're fine here. What's the ETA?”

Flicking his eyes between Bond and Silva, the co-pilot slowly says, “we're going to have to land to refuel, which we will do in Istanbul, which is about an hour and a half.”

“We're flying via Turkey?” Bond asks, his brow knitted. “Isn't that really out of our way?”

The co-pilot nods and explains, “airspace above Ukraine is too filled, risky, and there are way too many radar jammers out there.”

As the co-pilot turns away – Silva can see his nametag, which says 'v. Essen', a German name – Bond mutters, “right. And that's not the case above Iran.”

“Did you say something?” Von Essen asks.

“No. What was that weird sound you heard?”

Von Essen looks from Bond to Silva again and seems to be in debate with himself. “Nothing... laughter, then, I suppose.”

He turns away for good and slams the door behind him.

The tension seems to flow out of Bond as soon as they are alone again.

Silva doesn't dare to guess at what that means. He wants to take the flask with whisky out of Bond's hands but is restrained by his chains. Out of pure frustration, he pulls hard, only resulting in _more_ wrist pain. " _Mierda_ ," he mutters under his breath. Bond seems to look at him with pity in his eyes. Silva wonders what Bond thinks of him. Does he see a caged animal, ready for slaughter? Or a fighter? Or does he see a failure?

Silva blinks a couple of times, trying to clear his head. He should not have accepted the alcohol, but it does seem to take the edge of everything off. Seems to make him a bit more relaxed, in a pivotal stage of his plan. He sighs.

Bond stands up, rummages around in a box which Silva can't see the contents of. He returns with a third pair of handcuffs, and for a moment Silva fears what he is going to do with it, but then Bond fishes the keys of his pocket. He opens the third pair, then Silva's right wrist. He links the two pairs of handcuffs together and then puts the third pair around Silva's wrist again. He can now move his right arm around more freely.

Looking Bond straight in the eye, he says "thank you."

Bond gives him a terse nod and hands him the whisky. Silva mentally shrugs. Now that the alcohol is in his system already, why not try to enjoy it. He takes a swig.

"So," Silva croaks, and accidentally chokes on the drink. He coughs a couple of times, until finally, with a red face, he manages to breathe and speak again. "What is your earliest memory?"

Silva passes him the flask again. Bond gives him a funny look, which Silva is unable to place in the emotional spectrum.

"Summer vacation in the Provence, in France," Bond says, and crosses his arms.

Silva is one hundred per cent sure now that it is a defending gesture. Silva tuts incredulously and says, "come on, that is not an _answer_."

Bond's glare is hardening and Silva sees that the muscles in his jaw are taut, before Bond says, "it is _absolutely_ an answer."

Silva throws his arms in the air – but is once again held back by his restraints. Leaning forward, he says in a level loudness but with a hint of furiosity in his voice, "it is a coward's answer." He does not know if Bond is more the explosive type or the cold, rational anger type. Silva thinks the latter, if the rest of Bond's personality is in line with his behaviour when Silva had him tied up and fondled him. That idea turns out to be correct, as Bond leans forward as well, and says in a similar voice, his eyes burning, "do _not_ make the mistake of calling me a coward, Silva."

Both of their words hang in the air between them, and Silva searches Bond's eyes for a weakness that he cannot seem to find. He will be damned if he is the one to look away first. No doubt Bond is thinking similar thoughts, because, as Silva tried to stress, they _are_ very similar men.

Their competition is disturbed by more turbulence. Silva bangs his back on the hull of the plane, but Bond has to reach for something to prevent him from falling off his chair. That _something_ turns out to be Silva's knee. Bond retracts his hand as if he burned himself.

But such a shame that there is no clear winner in their staring contest.

Bond doesn't look at him, screws the cap back on the whisky flask and stands up. He leaves through a door opposite of the door to the cockpit, slamming it closed behind him.

Silva is surprised and, he has to admit to himself, disappointed.

Silva leans his head against the hull and closes his eyes. He uncrosses his legs.

Then, he hears the banging of an opening door, and his eyes fly open and his head jerks forward, and Bond is back, with a different bottle in his hand. Silva's eyes grow wide as he recognises the label. "Wow. Good job, super spy Bond. You nicked my Macallan." Although his words might indicate anger, his tone is actually approving. Bond inclines his head.

"You seemed surprised, when I returned," Bond says as he hands Silva the bottle. "You didn't think I was going to leave, did you?"

"To hope and to think are two different things," Silva says jauntily.

Bond closes his eyes briefly and nods at him sarcastically. "Sure." He sits down again, and says, "let's change the rules, shall we?"

"What do you have in mind?" Silva inquires conversationally.

"You have to answer your own question, too," Bond says while working on the cap of the bottle.

"Give me that," Silva says, afraid he will break the delicate glass.

Bond hands him the bottle and looks at Silva, who pops off the cap in a split second, then asks, "do you agree on those terms?"

Silva shrugs. "Of course. It's your invention, so just, change the rules whenever you like." He wriggles the fingers of his left hand with the last words then holds the bottle out to Bond and remarks, "such a shame to drink this straight from the bottle. Were the situation... a little different, I would surely be... outraged." Shit, he starts having trouble speaking. Why now?

Bond remains silent and accepts the bottle.

Silva places his right hand on his own jaw and gives it a short jerk, and he feels (and hears) his prosthesis click back into place. He ignores Bond, who is giving him a horrified look, and says, "I believe it is your turn, James."

Bond seems to snap back into it and stares at a spot on the wall of the hull just above Silva's head, before he lowers his gaze and meets Silva's, and says in a completely level voice, "who was the last person you slept with?"

Silva tries to mask his sharp, surprised intake of breath with following with a deep sigh. "Sévérine."

Bond nods. "I figured," he says.

Silva raises an eyebrow. "You are cheating on your own game."

"Why?" Bond mirrors the raised eyebrow.

"Because I already know you slept with Sévérine on the Chimera."

When Bond's lips curl into a smirk, Silva's eyes grow wide.

"You did... not?" Silva asks incredulously. "I did not know you were capable of such restraint. Surely she must have wanted to please you, her saviour." He says it without venom, just curiosity.

"Glad to hear my sexual habits are so well known all over the globe, but no, I did not. I don't like to take advantage of helpless women." The word _anymore_ floats in the air between them.

"So, with whom _did_ you sleep?" Silva asks, desperate to not let Bond fall into a pit of memories and ruin the fun of the game again.

Bond rubs his eyes, and Silva could swear he sees a flush creeping up the agent's neck.

"I, uh... I don't know—remember," he corrects himself, wrongly obviously, "her name. It was when I was in Fethiye, when I was, well, 'dead'." Bond gestures quotations in the air when he says the last word.

Silva shakes his head and grins. "Do you even remember the name of _anyone_ you slept with last year?"

He meets Bond’s gaze, and curiously enough, the agent looks away after a second or two. That _is_ interesting. _Very_ interesting. Silva can't imagine Bond is as obnoxious (or forgetful) to forget everyone's name, so it must be that he feels... shame? Oh, how he would love to get a look inside Bond's head right now.

Silva grabs the Macallan, standing forgotten on a table between them. He mentally excuses himself for his manners to the creator of the godly drink and takes a mouthful.

Bond snatches the bottle back from him and their fingers brush. Silva tries to look into his eyes to maybe see the answer to the secret there, but Bond avoids his gaze.

Then, once again as they have reached an impasse, and the outcome is oh so interesting, they are disturbed.

This time, it’s by the sound of Bond's phone ringing. He doesn't look at Silva as he digs his phone out of his pocket and looks on the display. Unfortunately, Silva can't see it.

Bond's expression becomes unreadable, and he mouths something that looks like 'excuse me' in Silva's direction as he stands up and, once more, disappears in the door opposite of the cockpit.


	10. Chapter 8

"Double-oh seven speaking," Bond says, as he closes the door behind him.

"Bond," M says.

How the woman's voice now almost painfully penetrates his eardrums, whereas only several weeks earlier, he always trusted its judgment, almost... looking forward to hearing it. Like a faint whisper in the dark, a mother's kiss upon the brow, the reassurance that this night, no monster would appear from under the bed.

"Yes," Bond simply states.

"Are you in Istanbul yet?"

"No, not yet."

"Then why is your phone on? Shouldn't it be in airplane mode?" M asks sharply.

Bond can't stop himself from rolling his eyes and is secretly glad that she isn't standing right here, right in front of him, because that would have definitely earned him a verbal flogging. "Well, if it would be I couldn't take your calls, wouldn't I," Bond says, the sarcasm dripping off his words and he realises he has made a mistake. No matter whether double-oh seven is her secret favourite, one has to _always_ watch their words around her.

There is silence, only a faint crackling over the connection reassures him she hasn't hung up on him yet.

"ETA?" she finally asks.

"To Istanbul or London?"

"Istanbul."

Bond can imagine her piercing stare. "45 mintues, ma'am." Bond only plays the 'ma'am' card in certain circumstances which should give her a clue about his thoughts on her, then. His thoughts, of which he himself is not completely sure anymore.

He really, really should not have started a conversation with Silva – with the cyber terrorist, he corrects himself.

"All right. Call me when you arrive there.”

No explanation, no anything. Fucking great.

"Yes, ma'am." He hangs up on her.

Before he tucks his phone back into his pocket, he turns it over in his hands for a while. He thinks of just a few days ago, when Tanner gave it to him. He wonders how things are in London right now, with Mallory, with the field agent he hasn't seen since he left for Hashima together with Sévérine – would she be back in London already? – with Tanner, with the new Quartermaster; would he be able to hold his own? A short smile creeps on his face when he thinks about their exchange in the National Gallery.

And most of all, he wonders how M is doing. What she is feeling. He wants to look inside her mind, more even than wanting to understand this Silva, with that constant subtle hurt on his face when the man seems lost in thought; the way he behaves; the way that after he has apparently given up on trying to convert Bond, the threatening behaviour still hasn't really subsided; and most of all, that he has to agree with the man: they are incredibly alike. It's almost like if Bond would look in a mirror, and pours buckets of icy betrayal over himself, and adds his reaction to that, he might just end up in the exact same position as Silva.

He wonders whether the man was a double-oh agent. When he thinks about asking that as the next question in their game, he smiles to himself, then remembers what happened before he left the room, and his smile fades. Silva inquired whether Bond remembered _anyone_ he has slept with last year. It was true, he did not sleep with Sévérine, and although he had the feeling the field agent with her beautiful skin and curly hair _definitely_ tried to seduce him, he resisted her, for no good reason, really. And the girl (or, girls?) he shared the cottage with in Fethiye... He had to pass his time somehow, and she (they?) seemed willing enough.

But the person he slept with, who had mattered to him, was someone he couldn't save. He clenches his fists, almost snapping his expensive Sony Xperia T in half, when he remembers the reason _why_ he could not save that person. "Leave him," M had said. Bond was almost frozen in indecision, but he knew that, in the long run, for the good of Queen and Country, the hard drive mattered more than one man's life. Even when that man was an agent with a promising future, on his way to become a double-oh in maybe a few more months’ time. "Leave him," she had said, and Bond pressed a dirty, off-white cloth against Ronson's chest, knowing he would not make it, knowing that the medical evac that would arrive in five minutes, would be too late. "Leave him," she had said, and Bond had left him, looking back.

Bond never looks back.

With a deep sigh, Bond closes his eyes briefly and finally tucks his phone in his pocket. Involuntarily, his mind wanders back to the man in the room next to him. He would like to pick him apart, understand him, and put him back together again. If he _does_ stay with MI6, it is out of self-preservation, to not let that happen to him. Although, it sort of already happened to him – wait. _IF_ he stays with MI6? Where did that thought come from? Earlier, he had just doubted M, but...

Bond slams his face in his hands, furiously rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, then paces up and down the tiny compartment in the plane, stops and smacks his left fist against the hull. He hisses: it really hurts. Cradling his left hand with his right, he paces up and down again. Shit, he needs to take a leak, but the toilet is in a small room off of the cockpit. And he doesn't want to look at Silva right now.

He is afraid of looking in so obvious a mirror, because he dreads what the results will be.

**

When the jet finally manages to land on the crowded airport of Istanbul, and the doors to fresh air finally open, Bond gets out, ignoring Silva as he passes him on his way to the stairs which lead to the ground. It's dark outside.

Bond walks a few dozens of meters away from the plane and digs his phone out of his pocket. He types in a phone number and waits.

"Yes?" a sleepy voice asks.

"Q? Are you awake?" Bond says urgently.

"Well I am now. Is this double-oh seven?"

"Yes. Look, I don't have much time, but I need a favour."

"I'm not sure I–"

"It has to do with the attack on Vauxhall Cross."

"Right."

"You need to trust me. I would not do this if I would not have to, if I would see any other way."

"Say what you need," Q says, finally sounding a bit more awake, "and I will see what I can do. No promises."

Over the connection, there is the sound of a laptop or computer starting up, and then, faint typing sounds.

"I need all the documents and files on agents with a Mediterranean background, year of birth between 1965 and 1970, about one point eighty meters tall, to be sent to my personal email address."

"O-kay," Q says, dragging out the 'o' in a questioning tone.

"No time to explain. Can you access the files?"

"I'm trying... Hmmm..." the quartermaster says.

"Well?"

Q is smart enough not to respond to Bond's taunts. Bond checks his watch and then looks over his shoulder to see how far the jet is in getting ready, and men are already approaching the plane to refuel it. He can smell the kerosene from where he stands.

"Got it," Q says. "I can access all the files without problem, but there is one which seems closed off, or wait... It seems to be... corrupt?"

Bond curses inwardly. There is no doubt in his mind that that is the file he needs. There would be no reason for a file to be inaccessible to someone working in MI6, especially the bloody head of the Q branch, unless there's something that needs to be shoved under the rug and never be seen by anyone still alive.

"Can you still get the information? There must be a way around it?" Bond starts pacing up and down, chewing his bottom lip. It feels raw, and he stops himself, instead clenching his jaw: his molars clash onto each other with an audible snap.

"I think I might. Wait, I have an idea."

"How long will it take?" Bond glances back to the plane again, and sees the men moving away again. The smell of the kerosene is penetrating his nostrils, and he blinks against the sharp odour.

He hears Q mutter an obscenity under his breath. "I think – I got it. Shit, double-oh seven, if they caught me doing that, I–"

"I will take the responsibly," Bond interrupts him, although he has absolutely no intention of doing so. All he wants and cares about right now are the bloody files. "Send them to me."

He hears Q's quick and shallow breathing, and then: "done."

Bond hesitates. "Thanks," he eventually says.

"I would like an explanation one day, but for now, good luck... double-oh seven."

Bond hangs up, and starts walking back towards the plane. He accesses the airport’s Wi-Fi – oh, the luxuries of modern day technology. Modern day technology, which allowed Silva to blow up MI6 from a safe hideout, a venomous voice in his head yells. He tries to ignore it and opens his email, and as Q promised, there are 8 documents attached to it. He downloads them and switches the Wi-Fi off again.

Four different agents, each with their personal file and a document describing all their actions. One has significantly more kilobytes, and Bond saves that for the last. He quickly scrolls through the first three – one of them, surprisingly enough, a 00-agent, passed away in 2003. One other file is on a minor field agent, and the third, on a trainee in Q branch.

Finally, with trembling fingers – from the cold, Bond tells himself, it's from the cold – he opens the last file. A familiar but still oddly different face pops up on his screen. A name, an age. Tiago Aristides Durante  Rodriguez, it says. Born in 1969, it says. Eye colour: brown. Height: 1.81. Occupation: agent in the 00-section, holding license to kill. Number: 004.

Bond's heart grows cold. He locks the screen on his phone, sprints up the stairs into the jet, completely ignores Silva, and locks himself up in the tiny room adjacent the one where Silva is being held. There, he takes off his suit jacket, sits down on a crate, opens the document, and starts reading.

Only when the plane is high up in the air again, he remembers he forgot to call M.

An hour later, when he has finished reading the document, he decides he would prefer never to look M in the face again.

**

Silva is bored, and his backside hurts like _hell_ , so much that he has to change position every minute, to prevent his ass from going numb. His legs are pins and needles, and his wrists are undoubtedly raw from chafing against the rough handcuffs.

The jet has been on the ground for a while now. Silva supposes it's for a refuel, since it's a small plane and they've been in the air for quite a long while now. Out of pure boredom, he decides to try and calculate how many miles they flew, and guess at the amount of kerosene needed for such a flight. The wanderings of his mind are broken by Bond, who storms up the stairs leading to the jet, through the room Silva is in – decidedly not looking at him – and through the door leading to an adjacent room. He seems agitated, his left hand on the pocket of his pants and his face contorted in what could benevolently be described as a grimace, but looks like something much worse.

Silva wonders what roused Bond's demons in so short a time. Then the engines start rumbling again, the doors closing, and the plane enters the lane to start taxiing. Silva hopes Bond comes back, because he hasn't even asked the most important questions, and Silva doesn't have the feeling he inspired Bond to follow in his tracks enough just yet – although, the look on his face can't mean anything good, for Bond, that is.

In a rare moment of allowing himself thoughts that cannot possible come true, he thinks that he would have liked to meet Bond earlier. To have met him earlier, during Silva's time in MI6, or even after that, the year 2000 perhaps... Before Bond became a double-oh. They would – could – have been such a great team together.

Silva doubts the possibility that Bond will betray MI6 now, when it is in such a critical state. And if M hadn't ordered Bond to be shot by this Moneypenny woman, there would have been no chance in the entire world that Bond would betray _Her_ , but now... Things are different.

Bond has been hurt.

He knows how he feels. Oh, he absolutely knows how Bond feels.

Silva doesn't even know for sure whether he likes the man, and he hopes his feelings towards him won't interfere with his plans. He has waited too fucking long to be where he is now, and he fears Bond might become an unforeseen complication. On the other hand, this might be his last and only chance to meet someone with similar feelings, with a similar background – a kindred soul, so to say. And that is very valuable for Silva, too. No one exactly understands him.

Then, a decision forms in Silva's mind, subconsciously, and he doesn't realise until much later that this was the moment he decided this – if possible, he will try to either save Bond's life, because likely, Bond will try to kill Silva when he escapes from MI6, or formulated differently, if Bond wants... Maybe they can work together in toppling M from her high seat.

His mind tangles and he feels confused. He doesn't know exactly what he thinks. He wants to end Her himself, this has been his goal for the past fifteen years, but a very human and ordinary part of him longs so much for a connection with another human being, besides Her, whom he has felt connected to since he has known her.

Bond might be his chance.

But Bond doesn't return to him during the flight.

The Macallan, however, he has left behind, and Silva has to restrain himself not to drink himself into oblivion. He needs to be sharp, the coming hours, and simply cannot allow himself to be inebriated.


	11. Chapter 9

When Bond is finished with reading the file, his eyes are burning.

It's not long after that their plane lands on Heathrow. When Bond sees London from a tiny window in the small room, he goes back to the space where Silva is chained. He apparently fell asleep, and he looks... peaceful. His head is lulled back against the wall, his lips are the slightest bit parted, and his face seems relaxed, his brow unfurrowed. His hands are, palm down, lying in his lap. Bond takes a perverse pleasure in slamming the door closed behind him, making Silva jerk his head forward and, once again, the movements of his arms are limited by his chains. He looks at Bond from under his brow, breathing heavily, looking angry and disturbed. His chest is heaving.

Meanwhile, the plane is starting its descent into the airport.

Bond tears his eyes from the picture spread out in front of him and says, "Heathrow," jerking his thumb over his shoulder. He moves closer to Silva, unlocking his right wrist, and locking his wrists in the same pair of handcuffs, behind his back. Then Bond removes the other two pairs of handcuffs, and throws them in a corner without looking. He pulls Silva up by the elbow and, gripping it tightly, moves towards the door.

Bond's head is spinning with things he wants to say. He would like to give some sort of reassurance, would like to say some sort of goodbye. He would like to say that it will be all right, and wonders where these feelings of affection come from, especially since, in the 24 hours that they 'know' each other, Silva has fondled him, threatened him with a gun against his head, and murdered an innocent woman before his eyes.

But a part of him can't blame the man.

When the plane finally lands, smoothly, and comes to a halt, a stairwell is put against the plane. Bond can see the proceedings from a window, and makes sure Silva can't. He sees that three armed men are jogging up the steps, then the door is thrown open and they enter, aiming their rifles at Silva.

"That won't be necessary," says Bond, after a few seconds of stunned silence. "Do you have a means of transport down there?"

When one of the men nods, Bond gives a slight pull on Silva's elbow, who seems to understand the hint, and he follows Bond out of the plane and down the stairs without resisting. "Welcome to England," Bond mutters under his breath, and he sees Silva smiling slightly from the corner of his eye.

Something like relief that Silva seems to have returned to his old self, swells up in Bond's chest. He sees a van, with reinforced walls and now windows in the back part, parked a dozen metres or so from the stairs. Next to it is a MI6 company car. He gently guides Silva towards the van, and hears the three men with the rifles stomping off the stairs behind them. One of them runs to the van and opens the back doors. Inside, there is a small bench and chains attached to the wall. Looks cosy. It must be dark in there.

The other two men join the first, and the man that ran out before them hops into the van and holds his hands out towards Silva, and Bond lets him go, fingers brushing the expensive fabric of his jacket for what feels like the last time. Silva looks up at the man in the van and says, "I'll manage, thank you." One of the guys outside slams his rifle butt in Silva's side and Bond hears Silva gasp.

"Shut your mouth," the man growls.

Bond walks to him, looks him straight in the eye, and says, "we do _not_ treat our prisoners like that. If you touch him one more time, I will make sure M hears about it."

The man grows pale and stammers, "yes, sir, but..."

Bond turns away, nods at Silva, who is already chained to the bench, and walks towards the company car, gets in, and starts the engine. Those three idiots can cram themselves in the front of the van.

The car softly sputters and Bond floors the gas pedal, automatically reaching for the gears, but then remembers these cars are automats. When will they ever learn the value of a car _with_ a gear box at MI6?

He thinks of going to his apartment to refresh himself a bit, but then remembers his apartment has been sold. He grips the steering wheel tightly and clenches his jaw. He has the address of the garage box where all his belongings are stored, and is dying to check if the paint on his Aston Martin has been chipped, and if it has, to send the bill to M. Then he sees the van in his rearview mirror and decides to just go to the headquarters.

The van follows his car.

The drive is a bit less than 20 miles, but he keeps up a steady speed. He finally checks the time again, and is for once not trying to count back to GMT, actually being in the GMT zone again. It's two minutes to 4 a.m. and the roads are completely deserted, still outside of the City. It's just Bond in the Jaguar and the Volkswagen van behind him. Bond turns on the radio in time for the four o'clock news, but zones out as soon as the reporter starts speaking, and the radio turns to white background noise while he thinks. He desperately wants to speak to M, desperately wants to hear both _her_ and Silva's side of the story. Or, _Tiago's_ side of the story, he should say.

The name feels strange on his tongue. Bond has trouble picturing Silva fifteen years younger, with brown hair and brown eyes, but the same tanned skin, with less wrinkles and not so, well, fucked by life, as he apparently is. Bond is burning with the desire, and also the fear, of finding out what _exactly_ happened to this Tiago. The file said he was handed over to the Chinese as a means of exchange, for six other agents, and 'for betraying MI6's trust by stepping out of work-related territory', but Bond doesn't know what happened in China and what Tiago did to be exchanged for six agents.

He's approaching London now, and decides to crank up the speed a bit before they are undoubtedly going to get clogged up in the traffic trying to enter London early as well. Bond wonders what kinds of job those people have, desiring them to be at their office or workplace at 5 or 5:30 in the morning.

Suddenly he feels the lack of sleep and the strain the last day's events put on him. He turns off the radio and tries to focus on the road.

Eventually, Bond reaches the gates to the bunker, and after half a minute or so, the van turns into the same street as Bond, who allows himself a small grin at managing to shake it off.

One of the guards approaches him, and Bond rolls down his window. It's the same guard who told Bond to use a car the next time, unfortunately for him on night shift now. He recognises his face and is apparently put off by the bags under his eyes as much as amazement of Bond listening to him and, indeed, using a car.

The man waves Bond through and walks to the van, and is presented with three cranky men with pins and needles in all their limbs and a card of validation. Bond drives into the silence and coldness of the tunnels, and after half a mile or so pulls up in front of the heavy metal door leading to the actual headquarters. He gets out, pockets the car keys and doesn't bother looking back.

He makes a beeline towards M's office, where she is not present, as she promised while on the telephone with him during the flight. Well, maybe one of them has a decent night's sleep then. Tanner is present, however, and greets Bond with a 'you look like shit'-look.

Bond responds with his most dirty look, and Tanner grimaces before getting up and shaking Bond's hand, and sitting down at M's desk, gesturing for Bond to join him.

"So, what is he like?" Tanner asks, with his laptop at the ready to take notes.

Bond lets himself fall in the chair, exhausted. It seems so strange to think that only four (or is it five?) days ago he sat here and was introduced to Mallory, lied to by M and given a termination order for Patrice. He rubs his temples.

"What do you mean, 'what was he like'?" Bond asks, really not feeling like being interrogated, not even by Tanner, but he supposes this comes with the job. For however long that job will last.

"You know..." Tanner shrugs, "did he threaten you, did he seem mentally unstable, what does he look like, everything?"

Bond sighs. "Male, about 1.80, platinum blond, green-blue eyes. He seems lucid enough but maybe not completely mentally stable." Bond buries his fingers into his eyes and rubs furiously, trying to stay awake.

Tanner asks, "and could you describe what happened when you arrived on..." Tanner checks something on his laptop, undoubtedly already updated by the agents who picked Bond and Silva up on the island. "Hashima, was it? Gunkanjima?"

When Bond gives him a look, Tanner says, "look, I would rather be sleeping too right now, but this is important, Bond, and we both know it. So just get this over with, please, so we can go to bed."

Bond inclines his head, takes a breath, and tells the story, without any intonation in his voice, trying to sound distanced. "Sévérine, one of his protéges, and I were on his yacht, the Chimera, and just before we approached the island I activated the radio Q gave me. When we docked on the island, both she and I had our wrists tied. We walked a while, and she explained what happened on the island. Apparently, this Silva had somehow convinced the population that there was a leak in the chemical plant, by twisting some computer numbers. She was taken away and I didn't see her until about an hour after. I was taken to a room filled with computer servers, tied to a chair, and I had to wait for about 45 minutes before Silva appeared. He rode down an elevator on the opposite of this, this huge room, and he came walking to me and held a... speech of some sorts, and—"

Tanner interrupts him. "A speech? What did he say?"

"What," Bond says in a hostile manner, "do you want a word by word quotation?"

Tanner just looks at him.

"Fine," Bond sighs, "he told a story about his childhood, when he would visit an island infested with rats, and he told how his grandmother would take care of the rats. Obviously he must be deranged because he talks about his grandmother, if that is what you want to hear?"

"Shit Bond," Tanner says, offended. "I just need to make a report on what happened, if you want to do it yourself, go ahead, but don't take it out on me."

Taken aback a bit by Tanner's behaviour, because the man is usually quite well-humoured, Bond remains silent before a few seconds before he mutters, "sorry."

Tanner raises his eyebrows and motions for him to continue.

"Right... I asked him then if he worked at station H, and he confirmed, he said he worked there from... eighty-six to... ninety-six? No, till ninety-seven."

Tanner furiously types away on his laptop.

"So, after that, he sat down at a desk and told me that I failed all my tests, apparently he had access to them. Then he made insinuations about M. He said she had betrayed me. Then he sat down on a chair in front of me and," Bond unwillingly pauses and Tanner takes note.

"He talked about the empire—"

"Bond, what did he do?" Tanner asks, worry creeping into his voice.

Bond tries to keep his voice level. "He kind of came onto me."

When Tanner still looks at him questioningly, Bond sighs and continues. "He opened a button of my shirt and looked at the scar caused by Patrice's bullets. That was all."

"Are you su—"

"Yes." _No._

Tanner looks at him closely then returns his attention to the screen of his laptop.

"Okay, so then he talked about what he did, he described how it was so easy to hack elections or satellites, and then he said something to which I responded, I can't quite remember, and then one of his men untied me and he, Silva that is, led me outside."

"How many men?"

"Two or three, carrying rifles."

"And you can't remember what you said what made him, well, change his mind?" Tanner asks incredulously.

"No."

_Well, everybody needs a hobby. So what's yours? Resurrection._

Tanner doesn't look at him, so Bond just continues. "We went outside, and he had Sévérine tied to a fallen statue, and he had me play William Tell, with him as opponent, but with a shot glass instead of an apple, and he let me take the first shot, and forced me by making one of his men point a gun at my head, and I..."

Bond doesn't want to admit his shaking hand, so he lies, "and I didn't want to risk her life, so I intentionally missed. Then he called me out on my bad skills and just shot her in the stomach, without second thought, it seemed." Disgust creeps into Bond's voice. That was a really nasty trick Silva played.

"So how did you eventually prevent all his men from shooting you when the helicopters arrived?"

A laugh escapes from Bond's lips. "I don't think he would have allowed his men to shoot me, anyway, but when he was distracted after he had shot the woman, I overpowered the man aiming his gun at me and shot three others dead, and then just held him, Silva, under aim, until the helicopters descended."

Tanner types furiously, trying to keep up with Bond speaking, and a few seconds after Bond closes his mouth, Tanner snaps the laptop shut and places it on M's desk, next to the ceramic Union Jack bulldog, the ugly thing. Bond almost smiles affectionately. Then he looks at Tanner, who is wiping his hands on his pants, looking down.

"Are we done?" Bond asks. "I could use a few hours of sleep, if that's even remotely a possibility," he mutters. The speaking and reliving the events have drained him and he feels himself sinking into the uncomfortable chair. He briefly wonders whether M picked these out herself, to prevent her visitors or rather, subordinates, from being comfortable in the bloody things.

Then Tanner says, "yes, I suppose so."

"Good." Bond stands up, buttoning his jacket out of a deeply ingrained automatism. He catches a waft of his own smell – sweat – and wrinkles his nose. God, he wants a shower.

When Bond turns to leave, he changes his mind and turns back. "Do you have any idea at what time M will be in?"

Tanner sighs, re-opens the laptop and seems to check his schedule. "She should be in at 7 o'clock, but I'm not sure if that still goes under these... highly unusual circumstances." Oh, Tanner. Always the diplomat.

"Right. Okay, so I will probably see you soon."

"Yeah... And double-oh seven?"

Bond once again turns back to Tanner. "Yes?"

"Take care, please." Tanner looks outright worried.

Bond gives him a terse nod: it's the best comfort he can offer the man now.

Then Bond finally makes his way through the glass door of the office and slowly descends the stairs, clinging to the handrail, ignoring the inkling to just crawl. Only his pride prevents him from just bloody doing so.

He checks his watch. It's almost 6 a.m. and it will be useless to try and find a hotel right now, so Bond decides to make his way to the locker room. Once, at his tragically slow pace, he finally arrives there, he unbuttons his jacket and throws it on a bench. Then he clumsily undoes the buttons on his shirt, and pulls it out of his pants. He takes it off and throws it on top his jacket. Sitting down heavily, with a grunt that makes him feel older than he is, he takes off his shoes and peels off his socks from his sweaty and hurting feet. Gods, he would kill for a foot massage. He cracks his neck back, and has to gather all of his strength to get up again and awkwardly steps out of his pants and briefs, wriggling his hips. Then, he limps towards the shower and practically dives into it as soon as the water is warmed up slightly. He stands there shivering at first, his arms wrapped around his torso, eyes closed, chin against his chest. Then as the water turns to a blistering hot 40 degrees Celsius, he feels himself growing even drowsier.

He slaps himself in the face to wake up, turns the water to freezing cold for 2 seconds, and then jumps out of the shower. Feeling slightly awake again, he wraps a towel around himself and uses another one to dry himself with.

When he's toweled, he ponders shaving, but sees his hands are shaking from lack of sleep and decides against it.

He puts on his clothes again, except the jacket, which he slings over his shoulder, and makes his way towards the waiting room where he also waited before his meeting with M and Mallory. There he sits down in one of the chairs, puts his head against the wall, and despite his uncomfortableness, falls asleep within two minutes.

**

M comes into the office at 9 o'clock, after having been in meeting with Mallory, who told her that the PM and her council wanted _another_ meeting about the bloody hard drive this afternoon. And that while they finally caught the culprit. She is forbidding herself to be curious, but deep down, she is _morbidly_ curious as to who this is, and whether it is indeed anyone from her past. Tanner had phoned her earlier in the morning, to re-tell Bond's account of what happened, and mentioned that the man was apparently blond, tall, and had green eyes. All of that doesn't ring a bell.

Somewhere in her gut, however, she has an uncanny feeling that a really, extremely nasty surprise is waiting for her. And usually, if she feels that way, she's almost always right. If she wouldn’t have been able to trust her gut feelings, she wouldn't have been head of the bloody National Secret Service for seventeen years.

When she enters her own office, Tanner is asleep there, in one of those horrible chairs. His laptop is on her desk, she sees with a disapproving glance, since he has his own desk in the room, but then she supposes she really can't blame him. She got at least a couple of hours of sleep in her bed this night, in this vortex of madness of the last couple days, and he obviously didn't. She hangs her coat on the coat rack in the corner of the room, and when she turns around, Tanner is waking up, rubbing his face.

"Oh... I apologise, ma'am, I—"

"Don't be a fool," M says. "I am sorry that the work required you to stay up so late."

Tanner smiles wryly and inclines his head.

"Speaking of work to be done," M sighs, "do you know where Bond is?"

"No, but I think he's still somewhere here, in the headquarters, since..." Tanner awkwardly shrugs. She mentally completes his sentence. _Since he doesn't have a home anymore, because we sold it. Because he has no next of kin._

_Of course he doesn't._

"I'll go and look for him," Tanner says, but M motions for him to stay seated. Then she sits down behind her desk herself, and tries not to look at the sleep in the inner corners of his eyes. Apparently, he still catches her looking and quickly – and not completely successfully – wipes it away.

"No, I'll find him myself, in a minute, I need to speak with you now. Could you give me a summary of everything Bond told you last night? Did he, by the way?"

When Tanner nods, she continues. "And did he seem truthful? Did it look like he held something back from you?"

Tanner's expression changes into something that likely means, 'of course he did.'

 M sighs.

"I have the report for you, ma'am, if you'd rather read it, but I could also give you a quick heads-up, whatever you prefer."

"Tell me."

Tanner tells her the main points, briefly.

Then M gets up, out of her chair, and makes her way downstairs. She sends someone to the locker rooms to check if 007 is there, but she quickly spots him in the waiting room, asleep. She doesn't enter the room immediately, but walks down the aisle where her employees are already at work, most of them looking tired with a cup of steaming coffee next to their keyboards. Some of them nod at her as she passes; she doesn't feel like being friendly, but she should acknowledge them anyway.

When she reaches the door that leads to the Q branch, she takes a deep breath, then swings it open. Inisde, Q and a couple of his assistants are already hard at work, seeming to inspect an odd-looking black case. She approaches the Quartermaster, who doesn't look up from his work, but still says, “good morning, ma'am.”

She bites back a sarcastic remark – oh, is it a _good_ morning indeed? – because this isn't the time nor the place, but then she asks, “do we have security cameras in the room where this Silva is at?”

Q nods, and walks towards a computer on the other end of the room, beckoning her to join him. He hits the space bar to wake the computer from its hibernating mode, and a couple of options pop up. She allows Q to do what he does best, and after a few clicks and things she doesn't necessarily follow, a screen streaming a camera, zoomed in and directly aimed at their terrorist, pops up on the screen.

She grips the back of Q's chair tightly.

 _Blond hair, green eyes. Sure._ There isn't a single trace of doubt in her mind about who this is. She swallows audibly and turns on her heel. The Quartermaster's eyes burn in her back, but she doesn't pay attention to him. _Why didn’t anyone tell her that it was him?_

Then she realises – almost no-one who works at MI6 today worked here fifteen years ago. Shit.

She makes a beeline for the room where Bond is waiting, and sits down next to him. He doesn't wake up. Bad sign. Agents, especially 00-agents, are trained to sleep lightly. Then again, he does look utterly exhausted. She doesn't wake him up just yet. She needs to think first.

Then she comes up with a plan. She closes her eyes, asks for forgiveness and wakes her agent.


	12. Chapter 10

Five minutes later, M stands in front of the frosted doors. One of the security guards wants to press the code in the pad, but she holds up her hand to stop him. She needs a moment, just a moment, to breathe and collect herself.

She doesn't know what feelings to feel, she doesn't know how to handle the fact that she is going to see him, _him_ , HIM, again. According to Bond, he called himself 'her favourite', and boy, is he right.

But she can't forget what has happened. She can't forget what he has done to her country, her city, but similarly, she can't forget what she has done to his life.

She desperately wants to believe that he will understand that, but that is... utterly and recklessly naive. And she can't allow those thoughts, those feelings, if she wants to be able to live with herself, doing what she does, day after bloody day.

Ignoring the worry coiling up beneath her stomach, she takes a deep breath and motions for the guard to open the doors.

**

With ice in his stomach and fire in his mind, and fatigue burning behind his eyes, Bond enters the holding room, containing the 'crystal cell', as MI6's employees have dubbed it, a bit too affectionately for Bond's taste. It's cold in the room, and not exactly the definition of cosy, and the stool bolted to the floor of the cell doesn't look comfortable.

Silva is seated with his back towards the frosted sliding doors, but looks around over his shoulder when he hears someone enter. They make eye contact and Bond swears he can see the man give him an uncanny smile. After a few more seconds, Silva completely turns towards Bond, his hands resting palm down on his knees, back straight. The minty green colour of his jumpsuit is not flattering, and the Velcro shoes which are standard for prisoner outfits -- to prevent suicide by hanging by the shoelaces -- give him an almost youthful look.

They don't speak. They just keep looking at each other.

Bond thinks about what he has to do in his, probably very near, future. His breathing speeds up.

He isn't sure what he feels. Maybe it's insecurity slowly but surely erasing his conviction, maybe it's guilt weighing down heavily on his shoulders. Both feelings are something Bond tries to prevent, rather than cure, and has been successful in except on some major occasions in his life. Occasions he doesn't like thinking back on. Bond rubs his jaw, which he just shaved, after M came to find him. It gives him a slightly more 'normal' feeling; the force of habit trying to make him believe that this is just a day like any other.

If only.

No, this is a day that will stay with Bond the rest of his life. The past will cling to him, he is sure of it.

And that thought is slightly -- no, extremely, disarmingly fucking terrifying. Bond shoves his hands in his pockets not to show either himself or Silva that they are shaking.

A rebel part of his mind blames it on the sleep.

If only.

**

"All right," M mutters to herself. "Time to say hello."

The door opens and she sees him.

A tiny figure in a mint-green jumpsuit. She approaches him and he grows bigger.

He looks up when she enters and adjusts his jumpsuit, then turns towards her, his hands between his knees. Then an incredulous smile breaks through on his face. "You're smaller than I remember!" It sounds like both a laugh and a choke, and hearing his voice again after fifteen years shocks her.

She confirmed through the cameras that it was indeed him, but seeing him in person makes her _believe_ it, but at the same time, she _can't_ believe it. How in hell did he survive?

"Whereas I barely remember you at all," she says coldly. Not true.

"Strange," he says, looking up briefly, before looking straight in her eyes again. "For me, it feels just like yesterday."

He smiles at her, eerily. "Are you surprised?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious.

"Not particularly. But then again, you always were a slippery one." Shreds and fragments of memories of a young brown-haired man laughing at her pop up in her mind and she desperately tries to repress them again.

He inclines his head a little bit, as if to get a better look at her. "Maybe that's why you liked me so much."

"You flatter yourself." Not true.

"No remorse," he sighs. "Just as I had imagined." He looks at the ceiling for a second before staring at her again.

She tilts her head the slightest bit and states, "regret is unprofessional."

Peculiarly, he laughs. It's a hollow laugh. He looks at James for a moment, and the subtext escapes her at the moment, but then he repeats her, "regret is unprofessional." The false smile falls off his face. "They kept me for five months in a room with no air. They tortured me. And I protected your secrets, I protected _you_. But they made me suffer. And suffer." He pauses, and looks at her directly, and she has trouble looking away. "... and suffer. Until I realised..." His voice breaks, almost. It sounds frail. "It was _you_ , who betrayed me."

During his speech, she felt herself go white, and cold. She keeps telling herself, regret is unprofessional, regret is unprofessional, regret is unprofessional, but she's not sure if it's working.

He swallows, tilts his head and continues, almost matter-of-factly, "So, I had only one thing left. My cyanide capsule in my back left molar." Then he suddenly sounds insecure, as if he _honestly_ needs her affirmation. "You remember, right?

"So, I broke the tooth and... bit into the capsule. And it..." He blinks.

"It _burned_ all my insides." Once again, his voice sounds close to breaking, and he doesn't look at her. "But I didn't die." He shakes his head very slightly and looks up at her. "Life clung to me like a disease. And then," he shuffles on the stool a bit. "I understood why I had survived," he says, smiling uncannily at her. "I needed to look into your eyes one last time."

And she can look into his eyes one more time. "Well, I hope it was worth it."

He closes his eyes and his smile turns a bit more genuine, but it still bloody creeps her out.

"Mr Silva," she starts, the name sounding foreign on her tongue. She has had to carefully print this in her head, as to avoid calling him anything she would rather call him. Rodriguez. Tiago. 004. Anything besides this fake name. "You're going to be transferred to Belmarsh Prison--" infamously known as 'the British version of Guantanamo Bay'. She tried to get him into a different jail, but alas, she failed. _Failed him,_ again. "--where you will be remanded in custody until the Crown Persecution Service deem you fit to stand trial for..."

He stands up, effectively interrupting her. "Say my name," he practically growls. "Say it. My real name. I know you remember it."

She feels her stony façade crumbling. "Your name is on the memorial wall of the very building you attacked. I will have it struck off. Soon your past will be as non-existent as your future. I will never see you again."

_Why did she say that?_ To assure herself? She turns around quickly, to prevent him from seeing her weakness, not after all this years, she can't allow it. When he speaks, however, she turns back. She can't help it.

"Do you know what it does to you? Hydrogen cyanide?"

He kneels, eyes cast downwards, almost apologetically, but then what appears before her shows her exactly what she did to him. Her stomach turns around and she wants to run away and never look back. But she can't do anything other than watching the scene before her unfold.

"Look, upon your work... Mother."

She hides her anguish and despair under a look of disgust and turns to leave the room. And him – this time, for good.

When the doors close behind her, she takes a couple of shaky breaths. She didn't know that his appearance would have such a great effect on her. She had no idea there was even the slightest possibility that he was still alive, let alone in the condition he is in (he can still walk, breathe and talk independently; she has seen Chinese torture prisoners who were in a much worse state). Nevertheless, his wounds still shocked her. He was right to say, 'look upon your work'. She bloody well knows that she is either directly or indirectly responsible for what happened to him.

Somewhere, deep inside her, she feels pride. Pride, because he didn't break, didn't spill her-- _England's_ secrets, even when tortured day after day for five months. She wonders how he coped.

So proud of him.

She remembers when she taught him to deal with torture, as his training to become a double-oh agent. Since they were both stationed in Hong Kong, the regular trainers that should have taught him like they would in London, weren't available there, so the task fell on her shoulders. She didn't mind teaching him. Quite the contrary. One of the methods she taught him involved remembering poetry, and during the torture to keep repeating the poem in one's head, as to have the mind focus on that instead of the pain.

_“So, do you have any recommendations?” The voice comes from her open door._

_She continues with what she is doing -- reorganising piles and piles of paper -- and doesn't look up. “What kind of recommendation?” She knows that it's Rodriguez who is leaning against her doorpost._

_“Poetry,” comes the lilting answer._

_“The whole point of this exercise is that you pick a poem yourself,” she says, “either one you enjoy, or hate, something you connect a memory with, so you can focus on it."_

_From the corner of her eyes she sees that he swaggers towards her desk and hops onto it. She looks at him sharply and disapprovingly before she opens a drawer of her desk and looks for a pen. Who keeps stealing the bloody things?_

_Then a pen appears before her, in the tanned hand of her best agent. She snatches it out of his hand and signs a paper, not thanking him or acknowledging him._

_“But,” he finally replies, “if you tell me your favourite poem, then I will have a very strong positive memory to connect that poem with.”_

_She rolls her eyes. This man is impossible._

_And despite it, she deeply cares for him. That is why, after a second's hesitation, she says, “truth be told, I hate poetry. My husband always recites the worst ones and expects me to give feedback on them.” She sniffs._

_“All right,” Rodriguez asks, after a moment. “So what's the one you dislike most?”_

_She slams her right hand, still holding the pen, on the desk. It hurts. “Bloody hell Rodriguez, why don't you go and pester someone else?”_

_She looks up and he looks stricken, a sadness in his eyes that he can't mask in time. He inclines his head respectfully and stands up, leaving the office._

**

_Over the next couple of weeks, when he isn't gone, away on an assignment, or terribly busy in the local Q branch, of which he is head as well, he continues asking her about poetry. It can randomly come up in conversations. One moment he will ask her about a recent mission, or the status of the British leaving Hong Kong, or anything, and then he will ask that question again: “what poem do you dislike most?”_

_She briskly walks through the hallway, thinking about needing to find a new local Quartermaster, since Rodriguez will be promoted soon. She heard from London that in the last month both 006 and 004 have been KIA, and she thinks of applying him for the position of 004. She sighs. There is no one as good with technology and especially computers as Rodriguez. It will be a shame to see him leave the Q branch, but on the other hand, MI6 will acquire a new 00 in which she has the utmost faith._

_Turning right, she sees him approaching and judging the look of his walk, he isn't terribly busy with something. When he sees her, his face seems to light up and he comes to a halt. She approaches him but doesn't stop, instead just heading straight for him. As expected, he steps aside just in time for her to brush him during passing, and then he comes walking next to her. It's an amicable silence, that won't last long, she fears. And then, he opens his mouth and she halts, sticking a finger up, and says in a threatening tone, “if you're going to say 'what poem do you dislike most’, pack your bags and get your ass out of here, because I_ will _fire you.”_

_He smiles cheerily and asks, “is it Tennyson?”_

_She casts her eyes upwards and turns back into the direction she came from. He follows her, struggling to keep up with her even though his legs are almost twice as long, and says, “you're not going to fire me.”_

_“I wouldn't be so sure of it.”_

_“It_ is _Tennyson, isn't it?”_

_She enters her office and slams her door closed into his face._

**

She enters her office and wants to close the door behind her, but it doesn't matter with these bloody glass walls. She sits down behind her desk and stares at the wall in front of her. Then she gets up again and starts pacing up and down the length of her office. All of it, everything, is tumbling around and over each other in her mind. She can't focus on one thing. She thinks about this afternoon's meeting with the PM and Mallory and everyone, the ministers, and the rest of the lot, and then she thinks about the way he turned around and adjusted his jumpsuit when she entered. A sort of half-smile breaks through on her face.

She had to forcefully teach him to adjust his suits, especially in official meetings when he just became a double-oh and was forced to wear suits. Before, when he was a regular agent, he rarely wore them.

But when he became used to wearing suits, and wearing them properly, he almost became addicted to the bloody things, and gathered a wardrobe that she didn't dare to think about how much all the shirts and vests and jackets must have cost him. Still, he didn't mind tearing them or getting blood on them in a mission, it appeared. He just loved buying new suits. Just bespoke ones, mind.

With a heavy sigh, she sits down behind her desk once again and pulls her laptop close. She opens it and types in her password. It's a stupid combination of letters and words. She was warned to _not_ use a word or a number combination, because that would be cracked. Well, she did use a word and number combination and _he_ cracked it, but then again, Rodriguez was--is a genius hacker. And they have suffered duly under the consequences. So now her password is this random combination and every time she forgets it and brings Q in, but this times she does remember it. Good.

Her mailbox synchronises and there are 95 new emails. She sighs, once again. She opens her inbox and scrolls through it, and one email in particular catches her attention. It has no title and there is one attachment. It's from a safe sender, however, so she opens it. She clicks on the attachment and it starts downloading, and after a few seconds a photo pops up on her screen.

It's Rodriguez, or rather, Silva. She looks at the time the email was sent. Yesterday, local time 14:23. Apparently one of the agents which rode the helicopters to Hashima took the picture, with a mobile phone – it’s gritty. She squints at the photo. It's a close-up of his face and he seems thoughtful. Then her eye falls on what he is wearing and her gaze softens a bit. It looks like a fancy jacket and a ridiculous shirt. So that hasn't changed.

But so many other things have.

She thinks. She knows what will probably happen, and usually she would try to prevent exactly that, but this has nothing to do with 'usually'. However, for her plan to work she needs to proceed as she would normally do.

She calls Q branch via the internal line and Q picks up. "Yes?"

"Check his computer. I need to know what is on it."

"Yes, ma'am."

**

He knows it when they access his computer; he has developed a sort of intuitive sense of it. And he is right, as the soft whoosh of electricity that is turned off, as well as his crystal cell's door that pops open, as well as the safety hatch that opens left of his cell all prove.

The guard doesn’t seem to hear it.

Simple, stupid luck: for Silva, maybe – not so much for the guard. Silva experimentally places his hands against the glass door of his cell, and when he pushes it opens. He feels the delightful sense of success swelling in his chest. Then, he sneaks up behind the man and quickly snaps the fool’s neck around. Catching, almost cradling, the suddenly limp body in his arms, Silva places it on the ground, with a pang of regret, quickly washing away the joy he felt previously.

Not looking back, he quickly jogs down the steps leading up to his temporary dwelling and towards the safety hatch. He peers down into it and thinks that his plan should have included a torch, but he has studied his route carefully and often, it should prove to be no problem at all.

He tightens the straps on his velcro shoes and climbs down the hatch and descends the ladder, and is swallowed by darkness. His spirits feel lifted as soon as he exits everything belonging to MI6.

The tunnels, life below London, are the home and kingdom of the rats. He grins grimly. He should fit in there quite neatly.

He wonders about what Bond will do. As earlier, he reminds himself that he should not have taken such an interest in the agent, because it is so, so likely that the man will completely fuck up his plans. He increases his speed and hopes that his men with his police uniform are in position.

**

A little while later, she knows he has escaped when he has. As she makes her way towards where Tanner told her the car would be, a twisting feeling in her gut takes her by surprise. She has to lean against a wall as she is suddenly flooded with sadness. Sadness, guilt and shame, that she didn't try to fix what happened between Tiago and her. If she even could have mended it. She was cold, and heartless, and acted as such towards him, him, one of the few people in the world she genuinely respected and liked and cared about. All past tense, unfortunately.

She shakes her guilt off of her and makes her way into the actual tunnels, through the iron door, but the car isn't there yet. She decides to wait and catch her breath, as she feels weak to her knees. Closing her eyes, she takes deep breaths of the cold air.

Suddenly she hears the heavy door open behind her, and she slowly turns around. It's Bond.

He says nothing, just approaches her and stands still before her. His eyes are filled with unbridled emotion, a rarity for him. He kisses her on her right cheek, holds her gaze for a couple of seconds and then he turns around and leaves through the iron door, putting a microphone in his ear as he goes.

She should have slapped him, or something, but she feels free, and forgiven. Forgiven not just for what she did to Bond, for James, but also for Tiago. She closes her eyes and mentally wishes him luck and strength. She wishes the both of them strength.

Then the car roars into the tunnel and fills it with loud engine noises, and she can't her herself think and she snaps back into her future reality and wonders how the hell to explain this all to Mallory later.


	13. Chapter 11

“Woooh!”

Bond stops shooting.

“Not bad James, not bad. For a physical wreck,” Silva adds, as if it was an afterthought.

“Why, thank you,” Bond quips back.

“You caught me.”

Bond lowers his gun. “Silva,” he starts.

Silva tenses, his fingers hovering above the switch for the radio. He has to do this soon.

“Stop what you're doing,” Bond says, commandingly.

“Why would I?” He knows his chances will be blown if he doesn't turn the damned switch _soon_. Bond wasn't supposed to chase him, or at least, not successfully. And he absolutely wasn't supposed to throw him off his guard.

“Because Tiago Rodriguez was a good man.”

The world seems to stop turning for a moment. Silva takes a deep, shaky breath. These are the words he has been longing to hear, for over a decade... but not from this man. He needs to hear them from _her_.

Then, he hears the train passing, above. The sickening feeling that had been growing now manifests itself firmly in his gut – he has missed his chance. Silva stretches a hand to the ladder rung above him, but Bond raises his gun again.

“I'm afraid I can't let you do that either.” Bond motions, the gun still aimed at him. “Get down from there. This is no place to hold a conversation.”

Silva slowly descends the ladder and Bond has to try his best not to snap at him to hurry up. He has seen this before: the perfect plan slipping through some poor guy's fingers like fine sand. But Silva approaches, and his eyes are red-rimmed, and his pupils are wide-blown, and his forehead is beaded with sweat, and his voice is soft when he asks, “so, where _do_ you want to hold a conversation?”

Bond lowers his right hand, the hand holding the gun, and hold out his left hand. “I'll need your weapons.”

Silva gives him a look, then shakes his head tersely. “No.”

Bond notices he's keeping himself at a safe distance, one hand always close to a pocket where he has probably hidden a gun, and his posture seems relaxed, but Bond can tell he is in fact extremely tensed. If you would touch him, he'd jump like Policeman's Helmet.

Bond sighs. “Well, it was worth a try.”

Silva takes off the police cap and rakes his fingers through his hair. “I suppose you have a plan of some sorts?”

When he doesn't get a response, Silva looks closely at Bond, who suspiciously looks like a schoolboy looking down and shuffling his feet after blowing up the toilets and spreading stink bombs in the girls' locker rooms.

Silva is about to say exactly that when Bond suddenly looks up. “I don't have a... plan,” he guiltlessly admits, “but I do know what we have to do right now.”

**

Slinging his work kit over his shoulder, Martin gets out of his van and starts heading for the wall. The sun is out, it's a routine job, and tonight his wife and he will celebrate their anniversary. A smile breaks through on his face when he imagines her surprise at the gift he bought her. He has been saving money to buy it.

It takes him a while to spot the name. He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket to check and double-check: he knows what this building (or the remains of it, anyway) behind him is, and he wouldn't like a pack of bulky assassins chasing him because he chiselled the wrong name off this wall.

As he gets the work, he thinks about what the sucker has had to pull off to get his name removed. He pauses. Isn't this a memorial wall? Whoever's on this should be dead. How...

He doesn't get a chance to finish that train of thought, as he feels pressure on both sides of his head.

“Get up,” a male voice says.

Martin does exactly that.

“Drop your tools.” Another voice, with a slight accent. Martin recognises it, because one of his drinking pals speaks the same way.

He doesn't dare to look sideways, but from the corners of his eyes, he can see that on both side of him, there's a man pointing a gun at his head. They're tall. And they seem muscular.

“Listen up,” voice #1, the man on his left, says. “In a minute, you will pack your tools and go back to your van, and you will drive to the other side of Vauxhall bridge, where you will stay for half an hour. Afterwards, you resume your schedule and tell your boss the job is cleared. Do you understand?”

Martin only manages a whimper.

“Do you understand?” the man on his right asks, calmly.

“Yes, sir,” Martin chokes out.

“Great.” The man left of him pulls out his wallet and tucks four fifty pound notes in the front pocket of Martin's overall. “This should cover your expenses quite nicely. Now, get.”

Martin didn't know he could run this quickly.

Later, when he would go out drinking with his friends, he would claim and swear it were guys with masks and _huge_ shotguns. And one seemed like he was wearing a cop outfit, just another piece of evidence that this country is going to the dogs, let me tell you that.

In reality, it were tired imposter in a police outfit with a Steyr and a now ex-spy with a Walther who had the feeling he committed an act of charity, as he took a few steps back and watched as his new partner-in-crime let his fingers glide over his own name and mutter a promise.

**

They unceremoniously ride a bus to Bond's garage box.

CCTV can't harm him. Bond has figured that if he doesn't show up at M's office tomorrow, they will eventually figure out that he hasn't died but... betrayed; which would be true to reality, but the government would put the label 'defected' on it. He wonders if _she_ would intervene if they would label him defector.

He, for one, doesn’t fancy being on the same list as Kim Philby.

Bond tries to shrug it off but a voice in his mind keeps screaming he's making a mistake and he should shove Silva through the bus window and watch him get driven over by rush hour traffic, but he can't do it.

In his police outfit, Silva acquires quite some attention, especially when Bond – still clad in a dirty, dusty navy suit – pays for Silva's bus ticket in cash. “That's a gap in your careful planning. No Oyster card?”

Silva gives him a dirty look and ascends the stairs to the upper deck, undoubtedly to instil fear in London's innocent populace.

He follows Silva up to the upper deck because he wants to keep an eye on the man, as he has a talent for disappearing and escaping, especially now that Bond knows a hundred per cent sure he used to be a 00-agent too. Also, he feels lost on his own, riding the bus for the first time in a couple of years, but he's afraid MI6 will come after them anyway eventually and he'll be damned if they take a taxi and the chauffeur turns out to bring them back neatly to the Old Vic tunnels because he turned out to be an undercover agent. No, Bond will never trust taxi drivers again, since that particularly unfortunate time when he was in France and he was brought to his target's house with blaring claxons and bright lights...

Bond smiles briefly at the memory. Luckily he got away fairly unscathed.

He stands close to Silva, the throng of people overwhelming, but Silva’s outfit enforces a respectful distance around him. Silva looks at him with an open gaze, seeming curious as to what is going to happen next, like a child, completely putting his faith in a parent figure. Except Bond knows what lurks behind that. He grinds his teeth together. Look where this all brought them. On the run, together.

Bond is still glad he sought out M eventually to say goodbye. Or rather, kiss her goodbye. Two months ago he wouldn't have dared, not even to think about it, but it felt the right thing to do at the moment. He doesn't regret it.

He sighs, and Silva – no, Rodriguez, or maybe still Silva? Or are they on first-name territory now, so Raoul, or Tiago? Bond doesn't bloody know – looks at him questioningly. Silva, Bond decides, it's Silva for now, then leans in and murmurs, "where are we going?"

Bond breathes out agitatedly. His idea is to get his car, and then decide where to go, but in truth he has no idea if it won’t be an immediate death warrant to use his Aston, but he is bloody hell not going to leave his car in London while they are going fuck-knows-where. Bond shrugs and mutters back, "new transport."

Silva seems satisfied with that answer and stands up straight again, looking at the road in front of them. After another agonisingly slow ten minutes of rush hour traffic, they arrive at the stop where they need to get out. Bond pulls Silva's sleeve and jerks his head towards the steps. They impatiently make their way to the lower level, and Bond remembers to check out his Oyster card again. He sees Silva nod at the bus driver, who only now notices that a policeman was on his bus, and agitatedly begins muttering into his radio.

They hop to the pavement and Bond starts walking in the direction of his garage box. It's about a fifteen minute walk and Bond sets a brisk pace, wanting to spend as little time as possible out on the open road as possible. He hears Silva jog a few steps to catch up to him, and they walk side by side on the narrow pavement. Most people go out of their way for them, but one particularly buff, 6 foot 3 doesn't, and passes busts through the small gap between Silva and Bond. Bond mutters "asshole" and he hears Silva utter something similar, but it sounds Spanish. Bond shoots Silva a lop-sided grin and gets one in return, then he sees that Silva's hand is resting on his gun holster, in which the Steyr is snugly resting.

"You know," Bond leans a bit to the left, to not have to yell over the steady buzz of the people around them, "you could go back and arrest him on charges like 'disturbing a police officer on duty'."

"Hmm," Silva says, a lighthearted sound. "I could, and if I had handcuffs on me I might, but I'd rather not get my hands on him. He smelt." Silva wrinkles his nose and Bond mock-disapprovingly shakes his head.

They continue for a while in amicable silence, but then Silva grabs his elbow. Immediately suspecting danger, Bond automatically reaches for his gun in his shoulder holster, but Silva's hand on his wrist stops him.

"No, just..."

Bond follows Silva's gaze and he's looking at a bakery on the opposite side of the street. Bond sighs and motions for him to cross the street. Truth be told, he feels quite hungry himself, too.

They arrived just in time, as there’s almost nothing left, and the staff is impatiently waiting, wanting to close up, go home, to their families.

They slip in quickly and queue behind a couple with a young child, a girl with two braids, who desperately keeps pointing at a chocolate muffin, but her parents don't pay attention. Moping and pouting, the girl turns around and sees Silva, her eyes growing wide. Silva squats and says, "hi there."

The girl seems somewhat less intimidated now that Silva is on the same height as her, and she shyly and almost inaudibly says, "hello."

Bond watches the spectacle unfolding before him with great interest.

Silva smiles a smile Bond has never seen before on his face. It's kind, it's open, it's... _human_ , and Bond dreads thinking that word because it makes him feel like Silva wasn't human before, but how he just acted inside his cell towards M... that was pure humanity. Hurt.

"I'm hungry, do you have any idea what I should choose?"

The girl twirls one of her braids on her fingers. "'dunno," she says, but then conspirationally takes a step closer to him and whispers, "but I'd take something with chocolate."

Finally, the parents notice that a strange man is occupying their child, and they turn around to scold him, but as Silva rises to full length they see his uniform, and supposedly his muscular posture, and think the better of it, politely smiling (and shitting their pants, Bond thinks) and herding their kid out of the store.

When the young man behind the counter asks what they'd like, Silva looks at Bond and raises an eyebrow. Bond shrugs and Silva orders one baguette and the remaining chocolate pastry. Silva takes the latter, disappears,  leaving Bond to pay. The cashier gives him an emphatic smile but when Bond looks at him with a blank face the smile falls off of his face and he nervously hands Bond his change, but when he drops it, Bond says, “leave it,” and walks out of the bakery with the bread under his arm, looking for the damned idiot.

Silva turns out to be a way down the street, chatting with the parents of the kid, who is happily munching on the muffin. Bond curses under his breath, walks briskly towards Silva, takes him by the elbow and says, "excuse us" to the parents.

He pulls Silva along, who bats Bond's hand away and snarls, "what is your problem?"

Bond doesn't want to attract attention out in the open, otherwise he would have slammed the asshole into the wall and told him what his problem was, but since he can't he furiously whispers, " _my_ problem? Only that the whole of British Secret Service might be on our tail, or should I say, _your_ tail, and you are being a fucking charity for the first person you encounter! That is my fucking problem! What would you have done had those people been undercovers?”

Just as furiously, but failing to whisper, Silva growls, "could you give me a fucking break, this is the first time in a dozen years that I am in London again."

"I will give you a fucking break when we are out of bloody London and _away from possible life-threatening danger_. You're welcome."

It's dark now, and the street lanterns flicker on as they keep walking. The streets empty, most people retreating back to their homes to eat dinner and warm themselves up. Good for them.

Bond is still fuming, but he walks it out of his system a bit and by the time they finally arrive at his garage box, he has mostly calmed down. He kind of sees where Silva is coming from, after living for, how long, ten years? on that godforsaken desolate island.

He throws the baguette at Silva, who catches it, and searches his pockets for his keys. He finally pulls them out of his jacket's inner pocket with an inward sigh of relief and unlocks the door, then crouches and pulls it up. He flips on the light switch and is perversely and pleasantly surprised at Silva's gasp.

"I might not wear Prada, but I have a better car than you."

"Oh, absolutely," Silva murmurs, walking up and down to marvel at the Aston Martin DB5. "Definitely."

"What's this, admitting defeat so easily?" Bond grins as he sweeps his gaze over the rest of his belongings. Not much he cares for is there. Just some of his furniture, a stack of books he's been wanting to read. He can't find his liquor anywhere, but then he opens a box and pulls out a Bollinger and a Macallan, and raises an eyebrow at Silva. "Shall I bring these?"

Silva mirrors his eyebrow, takes the bottles from Bond, their fingers brushing, and looks around, curiously but not invasively.

Bond stares at his desk. He finds his keys again and opens the bottom left drawer. He feels Silva's gaze burning on his back, but doesn't pay attention to it. Bond pulls the drawer open and a small object rolls around in it. Bond takes it out and clenches it in his fist. He then slips it quickly into the pocket of his trousers, and stands up. He takes one long look at the life he's going to leave behind, and sighs, and thinks about how concerning it might be that he doesn't give a damn about all his worldly belongings. He opens the car door for Silva, mockingly, and waits for the man to sit down, then closes the door and walks to the other side of the car.

He opens the door and gets in, sighing as he comfortably settles himself in the familiar leather. He lets his hands glide over the steering wheel before he puts the keys in the ignition and starts car. The engine roars alive and both Bond and Silva can't contain a chuckle of delight. Bond tests the car's response as he accelerates, and it responds perfectly. He drives the Aston out of the garage and turns right, then switches the gear to 'park' and gets out. He switches off the light in the garage box, pulls down the door and locks it.

When he gets back inside the car, Silva has put the bottles of liquor between his feet and has broken off a piece of the baguette, which he hands to Bond. He then breaks off a part for himself and wraps the paper around the rest, and places it on the ground between his feet as well.

"I swear to god," Bond says with his mouth full of bread, "if I see any crumbs on your chair when we next get out, I will dump you in a ditch and just drive away while singing loudly."

"I _absolutely_ believe you. Bon appetite, by the way.”

Bond inclines his head as a way to return that statement, then carefully turns left and they are heading for the M1. Bond sees that Silva curiously looks at the signs, but he says nothing.

When Bond finishes his piece of bread, he says, "actually, what you did for that girl."

"Yes," Silva asks, and he seems on his guard, like he is preparing for another argument.

"That was very kind of you." This is Bond's way of saying 'I'm sorry,' and it appears Silva gets the hint, as he smiles, and it looks a bit like the smile he showed the girl.

They drive for a couple of miles in amicable silence, and as the hour grows later, the traffic grows less concentrated and Bond is able to drive the speed limit. Just when they pass Thornwood, Bond drives to a gas station. He first extends his wallet to give it to Silva, but then hesitates. His identity card and his credit card are in his wallet. Then he mentally shrugs, gives it to Silva and says, "buy food. And water. And pay for my gas."

Silva gives a terse nod, but takes off his police uniform jacket and, finally, the ridiculous cap, and cards a hand through his blond hair – Bond pointedly ignores the tight fit of Silva’s white button-up which was hidden underneath the jacket. The London subway dust still clings to the collar.

As Silva he walks towards the small shop, Bond fills the tank with petrol and thinks that the only setback of this car is that it is so ridiculously expensive, fuel-wise. But now there is Silva, who supposedly has multiple bank accounts flowing over with cash. Bond ponders whether he can morally allow himself to, eventually, let Silva pay for things. He decides he can. For fuck's sake, if they're going to drive all the way Bond intends to go, then Silva'd better pay for part of the petrol.

**

The PM is absolutely the woman that M despises most in this world. However, at this particular moment, M can’t bloody concentrate on whatever nonsense the woman is spewing and she has to rely on Tanner to keep her updated. When it’s time to make amends, or at least clarify for the mistakes she made, or not made, depending on who’s asked, she still doesn’t manage to focus. She feels a lump in her throat, and her hands almost shake. She expects Tiago – _no_ , Raoul Silva, to barge into the conference room any second, but she has to trust Bond. She has to trust Bond, one more time.

She doesn’t even know what to say, but manages to deliver Tennyson’s most famous lines directly in the face of the bitch. Some of it sunk in despite her best intentions, all right.

Then Mallory stands up and buttons his jacket. “Shall we take a break?”

She was wrong. _This_ is the happiest she has ever been about someone breaking etiquette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I'm back, finally got round to a bit more editing. (All the Bond feels hit hard again after seeing SPECTRE.)
> 
> Adding two chapters tonight, and I hope to put the rest online soon.  
> As always, thanks for reading, and for sticking around!


	14. Chapter 12

Eventually Silva returns from the shop with two litre-bottles of water and a couple of sandwiches, which he all places in the car. He leans on the hood and again ruffles his hand through his hair. He looks at Bond and asks, "so, where are we going?"

Bond shrugs. "I have an idea, but that was, well, created as an emergency, so I am not sure if it's the best thing to do."

Silva tilts his head questioningly.

"Scotland. My family home."

Silva nods. "Okay. Do you have any idea what we do when we get there?"

"No. I was hoping we could discuss that when we actually got there." Bond moves to sit in the car, and once inside he leans to the left to open the door for Silva, who gets in slowly.

Bond takes one of the bottles of water and unscrews the cap, then takes a few big gulps, before he starts the engine again. He hands the bottle to Silva, who also drinks thirstily. As Bond pulls away from the petrol station, Silva wipes his mouth on his sleeve and offers the water to Bond, who shakes his head. Screwing the cap back on, Silva clears his throat and asks, "are we going to continue driving through the night?"

Bond looks at him from the corner of his eyes, to gauge his reaction. "What would you prefer? We could get off of the road and find a hotel, but I'd like to get at least a couple more miles behind us."

Silva nods to the last part, but then says, "hmm, are we in a hurry? Maybe we could... discuss our course of action in a hotel? And truth be told, I could use a good night's sleep."

Bond grunts.

It feels weird, how they are behaving towards each other now. They are so... collaborative, while earlier they were competitive. Bond doesn't really know how to cope with this shift in their relationship.

And that confuses him. He is put at a disadvantage, although he can imagine Silva is, in this, very similar to himself. Bond knows of himself that one of his greatest strengths is always behaving like he _has_ the advantage, even when he absolutely doesn't, to confuse his opponent. The problem is, and Bond mulls over this while they pass Harlow, that if _two_ of those men are put together, especially in a small space like this and they have to depend on each other absolutely to survive, that that does not work. Because Bond knows neither he nor Silva will back down, as Silva so aptly demonstrated in their game; "let's see who ends up on top."

But neither will, and Bond is very curious to see how this will turn out between them.

Bond looks towards Silva to see if he's doing all right, since he is awfully quiet, but the man is staring out of the window. Apparently Silva catches Bond looking in his reflection and grins at him.

"How are you doing?" Bond asks, and surprises himself at the genuine interest he hears in his voice.

Silva hums. "I'm tired, and my ass hurts," he casts an apologetic look at Bond, as he motions towards the chair. Bond suspects his threat about harming or insulting his car has hit Silva badly. Although, he can't blame him, since the Aston Martin is a wonderful car but lacks somewhat in the area of comfort, on which its newer counterparts definitely score higher.

So, Bond mutters, "same here. I would really like to check in at a hotel tonight."

"Me too," Silva says. He looks out of the window and says, "Cambridge is 5 miles away, shall we find a hotel there?"

"If you pay," Bond mutters, "I don't have money for a good hotel room in bloody Cambridge."

"I do," Silva grins.

"Of course you fucking do," Bond sighs. "What kind of sandwiches have you bought? Is there something with chicken or ham?”

Silva leans down and picks up all he has bought. There are four sandwiches, and he says, “this one is bacon and egg, tomato and mozzarella, chicken and mayonnaise, ham and cheese.”

Bond scrunches his nose. “At second thought, can I have the bacon and egg one?”

Silva tears the wrap off it for him and hands him the sandwich. It's sticky and plastic but Bond is fairly famished, the baguette already forgotten, so he is already happy there's food in his stomach. Hardly something conforming with his diet, but he never has to pass any more tests, he thinks bitterly as he chews on a burnt piece of bacon.

Silva unwraps the tomato and mozzarella sandwich, putting the garbage in the plastic bag he got with his purchases.

"Do you _like_ tomato and mozzarella sandwiches?" Bond asks, looking at Silva's food with a look of mild disgust on his face.

Silva shrugs and takes a bite.

Bond would like more explanation since he knows there must be more behind it. Even the chicken and mayo one looks less gross, but then again, that might just be Bond's personal taste. He takes the last bite of his sandwich and, while keeping an eye on the road, searches for the water bottle with his left hand. He brushes against Silva's knee and quickly pulls his hand away, but then Silva pushes the water bottle in his hand. Bond quickly meets his eyes as a way to convey a 'thank you', then unscrews the cap with his teeth and empties the remaining third of the water inside.

Silva takes the bottle from him and puts it in the plastic bag as well.

Bond turns off the highway and into the junction leading to Cambridge. "Do you have any hotel recommendations?" Bond asks lightheartedly. He doesn't care where they sleep, but he wants to prevent long silences between them, especially if they're caused by unanswered questions, because it's always harder to bridge a gap than to just keep the bridge open while not letting traffic pass. Part of Bond's foggy brain thinks that's a brilliant metaphor, but the more lucid part knows it's bullshit. Regardless, Bond wants to keep in contact with the man.

Silva breathes out through his nose. "No, but the best will be in the centre of the city, I suppose." Silva looks at Bond, who nods, and follows the signs saying 'Town Centre'. There isn't much traffic, but they're still in the outskirts of the city.

Then Silva continues speaking. "Have you ever been in Cambridge before?"

Bond nods, and doesn't really want to elaborate, but then he thinks that maybe if he himself answers questions, Silva might, too, and therefore Bond explains, "yeah, when I was looking for places to study. I decided to go to Eaton, though, my father studied there as well." He grips the steering wheel tight, his knuckles turning white. As his eyes flick sideways he sees that Silva is looking at him curiously, but he doesn't ask any more questions. After a minute or so, Silva picks his police jacket up from where it was lying as a make-do blanket over his knees and, in the tight space, wriggles into it.

Looking at him, Bond can't keep a grin from his face. "Going full policeman again? You'll make the poor clerks wonder what the hell a London Metropolitan police officer is doing 60 miles away from home."

"I'm cold," Silva says.

"I think I have a blanket in the trunk."

"Mm. We're probably almost there."

"Wherever 'there' is. Sure you don't want to stop and get it out?"

"Yes," Silva snaps. "I'm not a fragile doll you have to protect, for fuck's sake."

Bond is taken aback by Silva's sudden change in behaviour. Once again, he realises how bloody unpredictable the man is, and that makes him dangerous. And interesting, according to Bond. Maybe it's time for a new tactic? Cut out all the niceties and just return exactly what Silva does to him? He decides that in a split second.

"Fine, arsehole, god fucking forbid I try to be nice to you."

Now it's Silva's turn to be astounded. Then a small smile spreads across his lips. Bond internally curses as he fights to keep his face straight. Obviously, the man has caught on to Bond's game. Silva's smile turns into a grin as his gaze falls on Bond's forced neutral expression. It remains silent in the car, but it’s a warm silence, different from just a minute ago. Bond relaxes a bit again. He can handle this. This back-and-forth thing; maybe he even likes it.

Eventually, as they are approaching the city's centre, Silva says, "there! There's a hotel. Looks nice."

"Sure," Bond mutters. He starts driving in the hotel's direction. As they get closer they can see its facade: 5 stars. Of course, of course.

Bond parks in front of the steps leading up to the front door, and kills the engine. "Let's go and ask if they even have a vacant room," Bond sighs, rubbing his eyes, then carding his hand through his hair, blinking forcefully to keep his eyes open. Silva nods and gets out of the car. Bond follows after a few seconds.

They jog up the stairs, both men rubbing their upper arms to keep warm. The temperature is likely below zero, and their breath smokes. Silva holds the door open for Bond, and he raises one eyebrow before walking through the door, and entering the warm lobby, which feels like a tiny furnace embracing Bond. He shudders, letting himself warm up.

There's no one behind the counter, and Bond walks towards it and presses the bell. When it takes a while for someone to appear, Silva saunters to a corkboard on which all kinds of stupid advertisements are pinned. Bond presses the bell again, and eventually a sleepy-looking clerk arrives. Bond checks his watch. It's only ten thirty, why isn't there just someone in the lobby? Then he shrugs his annoyance away and asks, "good evening, do you have a vacant room?"

The young man's eyes flicker from Silva to Bond, and then back to Silva. The clerk's eyes seem fixed on Silva's uniform and it takes him a while to answer. During the silence, Silva turns around from the corkboard and meets the clerk's gaze, then approaches the counter and stands next to Bond.

"Uhm... Erm... We have..." He checks a paper on a clipboard. "We have a room with a double bed left..." His eyes once again flit between the two men standing in front of him. If Bond would not have been so annoyed by the kid's slowness, he might have felt sorry for him. Bond turns his back towards the clerk, and leans towards Silva. "What are we going to do? We could drive to another hotel and ask there."

"Sure," Silva mutters.

Bond turns back to the clerk and nods, says "thank you," and makes a beeline for the door. Silva follows suit. Bond unlocks the Aston Martin, gets in, and wastes no time starting the engine. Silva has barely closed the door when Bond floors the gas, and they roar out of the street.

"See another hotel?" Bond asks casually.

"Hmm..." Silva peers out of the window.

**

They try out two more hotels, which both have no vacant rooms at all. Then, when they finally pull up in front of the fourth, Bond is angry and tired and annoyed and he says, "fuck it, if they have a room, doesn't matter what kind, we're taking it. I want to sleep."

Bond antisocially parks the car in front of the door of the hotel again, and they walk up the steps. Thank god, there is someone behind the counter and she tells them there is a room with a double bed. Bond casts his eyes upwards and says to Silva, "I'll fucking sleep on the couch." Turning back to the girl, he says, "we'll take the room. One night, please, with breakfast."

The girl nods, turns to find the keys, which she places on the counter. "Breakfast is served between seven and ten a.m.," she says with a shining smile. "Let me show you to your room."

"You go," Bond says to Silva. "I'm going to park the car. What's the room number?"

"Zero-zero-four," the girl says. Bond sees Silva's face grow gloomy as he follows the girl into an adjacent hallway. Bond stands in the lobby, alone, his hands in his pockets, when he snaps out of it and goes outside to park his car in the hotel's parking lot. When he has neatly parked, he leans towards the left and picks up the Bollinger, which he tucks under his arm. He gets out, locks the car, and makes his way back into the hotel, towards room 004.

**

When he enters the lobby, the girls is back behind the counter, and she smiles at him, and asks, "should I show you where your room is?"

"No, thank you, I'm fine. It's that hallway, right?" Bond points to the hallway straight in front of him.

"Yes, absolutely, second room on the right. Have a pleasant night's rest," the girl says. She's pretty, Bond now notices. Straight hair, a natural redhead, with pretty sparkling blue eyes. He gives her his version of a pleasant smile, then walks into the hallway.

The door of the second room of the right, saying '004' in black paint on the dark-lacquered wood, is slightly ajar. Bond pushes it open and closes it behind him, turning the keys which were hanging in the lock.

He throws the keys on the bedside table and looks around. It's a spacious room: a sitting area, two large closets and as the hotel is of itself elevated above street level, it has a balcony. Bond puts the bottle of Bollinger on the table near the armchairs, then suddenly hears running water, and walks further into the room, to a door which supposedly leads to the bathroom.

Bond wanders back into the room, but then opens the door towards the balcony and steps out into the cold again. He loosens his tie and cracks his neck sideways, an exhausted sigh escaping his lips.

He looks out over the slumbering, but never fully asleep, city, and occasionally hears people, probably students at the renowned Cambridge university, yelling. Some cars drive by, but mainly it's a peaceful, calm night. Bond sniffs in the air and notices how it smells different from London air. Suddenly he feels a wave of something resembling homesickness crashing onto him, which is ridiculous. He travels the entire worlds, sometimes for weeks or even months at the time, and now he is only two hours driving away from London and he misses it.

Maybe because it's not so easy to go back, now.

It might even be impossible.

Bond closes his eyes and rests his head in his neck, forcing himself to breathe slowly, as to keep the panic he feels coming up, suppressed. He is in a way saved by the figurative bell, as he hears the bathroom door slam shut in the room behind him, and Silva shivering.

"Brrrr, fuck, can you come in and close the doors? It's freezing in here."

Bond snaps out of his nostalgic and sentimental ponderings and turns around, closing the balcony doors as he goes.

Silva stands in the middle of the room, a towel slung around his neck, wearing his tight-fitting white shirt, which is transparent in a few places as drops of water fall out of his blond hair. Luckily, Bond notices, he's also wearing pants. While Bond stands there, well, gaping, Silva pulls the towel off his shoulder, dries his hair, then walks towards one of the chairs in the room and hangs the towel on it to dry.

"Are you going to shower?" Silva asks Bond.

"No, I'll shower tomorrow morning," Bond answers automatically. "So, time to fight out who gets the bed."

Silva shrugs. "Why? We can share, no?"

Bond gives him a look. He isn't against it, per se, but he isn't wholly comfortable with the idea either. He still doesn't trust Silva, or rather, he trusts him as to leave him alone to buy food, for example, but he still isn't sure Silva won't just kill him in his sleep, steal his car and drive back to London to finish his job.

Bond feels like he should just let Silva sleep in the bed and stay awake himself, to keep an eye on the man, but he doubts whether he can stay awake. No, he decides as he yawns, his jaw cracking, he can't stay awake. Then he shrugs. "Well... Okay, I guess. But no more fondling," Bond warns him, as Silva walks towards the bed and slides under the covers on the right side.

Bond closes the curtains, check whether the balcony doors are locked, then switches off all the lamps except one on the bedside table. Bond sits down on the left side of the bed and undresses, until he's clad in his shirt and pants, and quickly slides under the covers and flips off the light.

"Night," Silva mutters.

"Night."

Bond tries to fight the sleep, somewhere still feeling he should keep an eye on Silva, at least until the man's asleep, but he can't, and quickly slides off in a sleep filled with dreams.


	15. Chapter 13

Silva wakes up.

He doesn't move, or show any other indication that he's awake, if there were for some reason anyone watching him sleep. It's an ingrained training to not move, or breathe faster, or open eyes, because if someone _were_ indeed watching, it might be useful to have them believe you were still asleep.

The reason he tries to remain inconspicuous is because he hears a sound he can't immediately place, left of him. It sounds like... breathing? Then he remembers the day before, and the drive to Cambridge, and the hotel, and James Bond, who is supposedly asleep next to him. Silva opens his eyes, and since he's lying on his back, he just moves his head to look to Bond. He seems asleep, but then again, he's had exactly the same training as Silva had, so maybe that doesn't mean much. But when after ten seconds or so, Bond still shows no sign of being awake, Silva supposes he isn't.

Silva has no idea what time it is. He has seen a clock somewhere in the hotel room yesterday evening, but he can't see it from where he's lying. He didn't have a watch nor mobile phone when he left London, because MI6 took all his possessions from him when they forced him in that awful jumpsuit and took all his personal belongings away after a rather... intrusive frisk. He shudders and briefly closes his eyes upon remembering it.

He feels constricted, so he throws off the blankets. He forgot that it's one big blanket, also covering Bond, and when the man next to him makes a sound, Silva looks at him and sees goose bumps on his bare forearms, sighs, and places the blankets over Bond again and gets out of the bed.

He rolls his shoulders back, and looks longingly at the balcony doors. Then he remembers he's only clad in his pants and a shirt, so he pads to the bathroom to take one of the standard-issue bathrobes, white and fluffy, and puts it on. Then he walks to where Bond deposited his clothes, and takes his wallet and his phone. Silva checks the time: 3.35 a.m. Then he takes the key, leaves the hotel room and closes the door behind him quietly.

The light in the hallway is blinding.

The tiles are cold below his bare feet. He wraps his bathrobe tighter around him and wanders towards the lobby. The same girl that was there when they arrived is nodding off behind the counter, but she wakes up when Silva enters the lobby.

"Oh, mister De Santigo," she smiles, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. He gave her fake names when he checked in while Bond was parking his Aston. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Please, call me Justino," Silva says. "Yes, actually, you can. Is there somewhere I can get cigarettes around here?"

She nods and stands up. "There's a machine in the bar, do you know where that is or would you like me to show you?"

It's a tempting offer, but he grins and says, "thank you, I think I can manage. But do you perhaps have a lighter I could borrow?"

She hesitates. "Uhm, yeah.” She disappears through a door, and returns with her purse, which she opens and after digging a while, pulls out a lighter.

"You don't have to give me your own," Silva protests weakly.

"It's alright," she laughs. "I'm trying to quit anyway."

Silva inclines his head gratefully. "In that case, thank you very much, and good night."

"Good night," and she adds after a slight hesitation, "Justino."

He has to stop himself from slightly shaking his head. It can be so easy. Just be nice, introduce first names (even though he doesn't like his current alias, but alas), smile, and they're swooning in front of you. He frowns, as he follows the signs leading to the bar, deep in thought, and he finally allows his mind to wander, something he tried to prevent since Bond aimed his gun at him in the tunnels of subterranean London.

He pauses and leans against the wall, face turned towards it, fist clenched above his head, against the wall. What is he doing here?! He should be _dead_ by now. The thought overwhelms him and a lump in his throat forms. He should have continued through the tunnels, to _Her_ meeting, should have walked in, should have looked her in the eyes one more time, and should have pulled the trigger. Instead, as the fucking weak pathetic little shit he is, he grabbed the first chance to get out of it. Coward, he scolds himself, and slams his fist against the wall. He doesn't register the pain.

Blindly he continues walking, not really looking where he goes, but eventually he ends up in front of the cigarette machine. He digs out Bond's wallet out of the bathrobe's pocket and inserts a tenner in the machine. He randomly pushes a button, he really doesn't care, he just craves the nicotine, the ritual that goes with it. He takes the pack and forgets to take the change.

As he makes his way back to his room, ignoring the girl in the lobby, his mind races on. He clung to the opportunity Bond offered. But why? Was it indeed cowardice, not to go through with his carefully planned scheme, after fifteen years? Was it just because he liked Bond? That would be pathetic in its own right. Silva doesn't know. And that infuriates him. He thought he had conquered one of humanity's greatest weaknesses. He thought he finally mastered the commandment ‘know thyself,’ but apparently he does not.

He remembers to open the door to the room quietly, closes it behind him and leaves the keys hanging in the door after locking it. He ignores the shape on the bed, still breathing calmly, and makes a beeline for the balcony. He goes out and makes sure to carefully leave the doors slightly ajar. It would be stupid to accidentally lock himself out and be stuck out there until sunrise, awkwardly sitting in his bathrobe, slowly freezing to death.

He opens the pack, which turns out to be Marlboro, which is just fine, and sticks one of the cigarettes between his lips.

Silva uses the lighter the girl gave him. The flame burns bright and he stares into it, intrigued, before he lights the cigarette and then watches the lighter sputter out. He takes the first, oh so glorious drag and blissfully closes his eyes. He takes a second drag before he walks to lean against the balustrade and look out over the still quiet street, and takes out Bond's phone from his bathrobe's pocket. He inspects it: it's a Sony – fair enough. He 'slides to unlock' and raises his eyebrows. The fool has not protected it with a password. Upon inspecting the screen, he notices only _one_ tiny scratch. It's new, then. Silva sighs.

He lights another cigarette, which he calmly smokes as he wrecks his mind trying to remember a phone number. He bitterly thanks MI6, where he was taught the locus-method to remember lists, whether they are things or numbers. Silva taps the number into the phone and puts it to his ear blowing out smoke, squinting against it when a wind gust suddenly blows it back into his face.

His contact picks up quite quickly. “Yes?” she says suspiciously. Of course, she doesn't recognise this phone number.

“Hello darling,” Silva says, trusting that she recognises his voice. How could she not?

She does. “Oh, hello,” she says, sounding hesitant, which he understands. As per their agreement, she was free to go when Silva would be dead, which should have been about 12 hours ago. But as he is not, he cannot yet release her from her duties.

“What can I do for you?” she continues after a couple of seconds of silence, in her pleasant, slightly lilting French accent.

Silva smiles. Never underestimate the value of people who owe you. “I need a passport, and a credit card, the one from Tenerife under the name of Justino de Santigo.”

Silva has several bank accounts all over the world, but since has decided to use this Justino de Santigo persona, to play safe, since it's a reasonably new one and if – no, _when –_ MI6 comes searching, he has faith that this one is protected well enough.

The value on the bank account translates to about half a million pound sterling, which should absolutely suffice for now.

“All right,” she says. “Where would you like it delivered?”

“That depends,” Silva says. “I'm in England right now, would it be possible to get it in, say, five hours?”

“That depends,” she echoes. “Where are you exactly?”

“Cambridge.”

“Oh. Easy.”

Silva tells her the hotel's address and she tells him he'll get his documents and the cash money he requested, as an afterthought, at breakfast.

“Thanks, my dear,” he says, and terminates the connection before she has a chance to say something.

Oh, she is such a great actress. Silva's gun never held actual bullets. She did a marvellous job at collapsing at the statue and pretending to be dead.

Silva debates internally about whether to smoke another cigarette, and ultimately decides against it. He checks the time. Just past 4 a.m. He will try and get a few more hours of sleep, so he goes inside and softly pads towards the bathroom to rinse his prosthesis, after the smoking; the price he pays for the few niceties and pleasantries life still has to offer him. He leaves the light off, so he doesn't have to look in the mirror.

He re-inserts his prosthesis and washes his hands and his face, then he takes the phone, wallet and cigarettes out of the bathrobe and takes it off. He wants to throw it in a corner, then decides not to and hangs it back on the door, where he originally found it.

Leaving the bathroom, he walks to Bond's side of the bed, where he places the phone on the bedside table. Then he puts his wallet back in Bond's trousers, and puts his cigarette pack in the back pocket of his own.

He crawls back under the sheets, careful not to disturb Bond as he lies down.

However, he can't fall asleep.

The whirl of emotions and thoughts that hit him when he was downstairs, getting cigarettes, crashes back onto him, he's defenceless in the dark and his chest is heaving and his eyes are wide-opened and he feels his blood rushing in his ears and the adrenaline makes him sweat and makes his heart beat and makes him want to run.

He wishes he could escape to the realm of dreams, as the man next to him manages to.

But Silva can't.

He can't stop replaying the moment Bond aimed his gun at him and Silva had his hand on the switch, and if he had just pressed the goddamned button he wouldn't be here now. If he had pressed the button, his live would have been over. And so would hers have been. If he had pressed the button, everything would have been all right.

But it isn't.

And for the first time in a long while, Silva doesn't know what the future holds. His immediate future, anyway, since he is still clinging to the notion of killing _Her_ and bringing himself down along. Only, he has no clue how to do it without the fifteen year-long effect of surprise. He fucking blew his chance and it might all be over now. He might just as well kill himself off. It's all useless now.

But he doesn't dare.

Some kind of spark inside of him fights for life, fights for a chance. It's the same spark that kept him going through five months of hell, the spark that made him believe that somehow, somewhere, there was a way out. The spark that eventually gave him the courage to bite down on the pill, that made his jaw clench to crush the death-containing molar. This same little thing, this sense of purpose, prevents him from getting his gun from his clothes or throwing himself off of a building.

Silva doesn't know what to do. Should he still go after M? Now that the fear and memory of himself is still fresh in Her mind? Or should he wait, a month, a year, a decade?

Bond shifts beside him and Silva would desperately like to talk to him, talk to anyone, have human contact, if only to let him assure himself that he's alive. That life, or God, or the universe, didn't play a foul trick on him and let him suffer. That he in fact would have succeeded in his goal and is dead now.

And although death doesn't scare him, he's long past that, he's living on borrowed time since that cell in Hong Kong anyway, he doesn't particularly look forward to it if _She_ is still alive. If he goes, she goes too. He solemnly promises this to himself, and whispers it to himself, in Spanish.

He uncages his mind and lets himself wander in the area of lost memories. He thinks of his grandmother, of the island, before it got infested with rats. He thinks of how he used to play in the sand, and swim, and tried to hold his breath as long as possible. Unbelievable, that that used to be fun, a game, while twenty years later he had to do it to live. His mind flips through his youth, through London, through MI6 and lets the book fall open on a prison scene. It's uncanny, how he can remember the slightest details if he just allows himself. The cell, the voice of his torturers, the scratches on the wall he made when he thought another day had passed.

And the pain. Which never really leaves him. And he bears the marks to prove it.

He tells himself that it's over now, regardless. That he's safe from them, now. Sometimes, telling himself this helps, sometimes it doesn't.

What _does_ help, this time, is that he is far, far away from Hong Kong and there's a human being lying curled up next to him. He tries to make his breathing match with Bond's, as to force himself to calm his panicked breaths down.

Silva hesitates, but then, with aversion, clutches at a method that almost always works for him to calm down. He starts reciting poems, in his mind. He keeps going until he runs out of them but then he just starts over. He forces himself to focus on one thing, one thing only, and if an unpleasant thought _does_ pop up, it is immediately crushed under waves of poetry.

There is one poem he avoids, however: Ulysses.


	16. Chapter 14

They're woken by the alarm Silva set last night, which he did as a precaution. It's 9 a.m. Enough time to shower and then leisurely have breakfast. Bond groans next to him and exaggeratedly throws his arm over his eyes. Silva hears him breathe in deeply through his nose, after which Bond seems to freeze, but then suddenly sits upright.

Sleepily, Silva mutters something that should resemble 'what', as he's lying on his stomach, his face shoved into his pillow.

“Nothing,” Bond says, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “I'm going to take a shower.”

“Sure,” Silva says, and then falls asleep again.

He is woken by Bond spattering water in his face. From Silva's lips escapes a weird, strangled shocked sound which turns his ears red with embarrassment. He sits upright, flings his legs over the edge of the bed and pushed away Bond, who is standing with his hands on his towel-clad hips, cheekily grinning.

“Did you sleep well?” Bond yells at him while Silva marches towards the bathroom. His answer is a door slammed close.

Twenty minutes later, they're both finished with their morning rituals and hungry, so they make their way to the lobby, albeit unshaved, since they didn't bring anything besides the clothes they were wearing. Silva's almost sad to see the girl gone; he had wanted to give her back her lighter. The new kid shows them where breakfast is served. They're late, and most of the tables are vacant. There's a family of four, a group of five teenage girls and an elderly couple. Bond leads Silva to a table of four, in the corner of the room, and they sit down next to each other, with their backs to the wall. Silva wants to have a good view of the room and he supposes Bond has similar thoughts.

A waiter comes to take their order. Silva would have preferred a self-service breakfast, but this is the additional price to be paid for a five-star hotel that probably wants to be fancy. Bond orders a full English breakfast ( _of course_ he does) and Silva wrinkles his nose at that, then orders “two poached eggs and some toast, please.”

“And would you like coffee or tea with that?” the waiter asks.

Silva glances at Bond, who looks back at him. “Coffee,” they say in unison.

“I do not understand how you can digest that greasy garbage before noon,” Silva says when the waiter is gone.

Bond looks at him, with an astonished look on his face. “What, English breakfast?”

“The beans and the mushrooms and the sausage,” Silva makes a disgusted noise. Then he feels something pull at his sleeve. He looks down and sees it's the boy from the family. He looks at the table – the mom isn't there and the dad is busy with the younger boy who managed to smear his beans all over his face. The boy points at Silva and mumbles “please,” and after a second or two of staring, Silva remembers he's wearing the uniform and the boy tried to say 'police'.

Silva smiles at him but gives him a push towards his father. Silva pulls a face at Bond, who says, “wow, you have a knack for children or something. Creepy.”

Silva sighs. “I want a suit. Something, anything other than this bloody uniform.”

Bond spreads his hands wide. “Wait, I know what you're going to say. We're in bloody Cambridge – we should _totally_ go shopping.”

Silva, of course, knows that Bond is mocking him, but he pretends _not_ to know. “Great idea.”

They're saved from further bickering because their food arrives, brought to them by a different waiter – a waitress, in fact. When she presents Silva's plate, where two poached eggs are gliding around, the look of which does not exactly boost his appetite, the waitress says “and your request.”

She inconspicuously places a folder and a bulky envelope on the table and leaves. Silva opens the folder – his passport, credit card and the documentation for his bank account: good. He flips open the passport and cringes at his photo. Then he curiously regards the envelope. He carefully opens it and can't suppress a gleeful chuckle, when a shiny new phone glides into his palm. It's a Sony as well, but a newer model than Bond's. This one works under water as well, supposedly – Silva has seen the advertisements.

He tucks the phone into his pocket and wants to crumple the envelope, when a note falls out. It reads 'You're welcome. xx S.” Silva smiles at it, then throws it away, together with the envelope, in the small trash bin supposed for teabags and such, which stands on their table.

Bond shakes his head and continues eating. Silva regards his poached eggs and sighs.

He pours the both of them some coffee and reaches for a slice of toast and the marmalade.

“Are you going to tell me what all of that was about?” Bond says, his eyes focused on his plate – he's trying to spear the last bean on his fork.

“No,” Silva says immediately. “Unless you ask me very nicely, of course,” he adds.

Bond rolls his eyes. It's quiet for a moment, but then Bond says, “next time you want to borrow ten pounds, just ask. Don't steal it from my wallet.” He regards Silva very sharply. Silva looks at him, only his manners preventing him from staring at Bond with his mouth wide open – then again, he should have expected Bond to find out. Same training, of bloody course.

Silva quickly recovers, however, and shrugs. “Okay.”

They finish eating in silence. Afterwards, Silva says, “I'll pay. Can you go and check if we left anything in the room?”

“But you – oh. Of course,” Bond mutters darkly, and disappears to their room.

Later, they decide to leave the car at the hotel for the time being, and take a short walk to the beautiful old city centre. Silva has his hands in his pocket and wonders how the hell he did end up here. Going on a shopping spree, in Cambridge, with James Bond, 007. He feels the panic approaching, the same panic that disabled and crippled him last night, and he tries to shut it away in a dark corner of his mind before it can take him over again.

He tries to distract himself by making small talk, a skill he has lost during a dozen years of isolation on an island.

“So, Tom Ford. Convince me.”

Bond gives him a look from under a furrowed brow. “Why the hell not?”

That effectively shuts Silva up and he curses mentally. Why is this never easy?

“Don't sulk,” Bond says unexpectedly.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am– okay, maybe I was,” Silva admits.

Bond smiles slightly and nudges his elbow into Silva's side. “Look, Burberry. Is that a good compromise?”

Silva grins. “Oh, quite.”

Unfortunately they don't have time to order bespoke suits, but maybe that's better for Silva's wallet. On the other hand, spending money on ridiculously luxurious and expensive clothing is, well, the least of his concerns, which are numerous.

Silva buys two full suits and a warm pullover, as well as a new coat and a pair of shoes. Bond keeps it at two navy blue suits and a coat.

Silva pays. With his card. And takes a great delight in doing so. Even this little bit of complete nonsense power – flashing a card and have everything taken care of – pleases him. After paying, he disappears back into a changing room in one of his new suits, and Bond groans when he sees him. It's flashy, at least, Silva would describe it like that. Bond would probably call it horrible, but he has the manners to spare Silva his tirade.

When Bond finally pulls Silva out of the store, after they accidentally walk into the area where they sell watches and Silva gets a little too excited, they make their way back to the car and throw their stuff in the trunk.

When Silva wants to get in, however, Bond stops him. “Give me a cigarette. I would kill for a smoke.”

Silva's brow furrows, and Bond apparently notices it.

“I smelt smoke when I woke up this morning.” So that's why he suddenly sat upright, probably thought there was a fire or something.

Bond points at Silva's face. “The shadows under your eyes are just as bad as yesterday, and you were cranky as shit when I woke you up. Obviously you didn't sleep well, and you stole money from my wallet, so my theory is that you used the cash money to get cigarettes from the machine in the bar.”

Bond crosses his arms.

Silva says nothing.

Then he opens the trunk and looks for the pack, which is somewhere in his old pants. He pulls it out, closes the trunk, and offers the pack to Bond, who takes one and puts it between his lips. He also takes the lighter which Silva put inside the pack.

“Thank you,” Bond mutters around the cigarette.

Silva takes one too and when Bond hold up the lighter to light his cigarette for him, Silva leans in, meeting Bond’s gaze.

They smoke in silence, leaning against the wall of the hotel, standing next to each other.

They start driving out of Cambridge.

“How long till, wherever we go?” Silva asks as he fastens his seatbelt, admiring the soft fabric of his new suit jacket.

“About six hours,” Bond grunts.

It's noon. Silva sighs and stretches his legs as far as the limited space will allow him. Bond raises his eyebrows. “You know, you can drive if you want to.”

This perks Silva up. He looks at Bond intently. “Are you serious?”

“No.”

Disappointment hits Silva.

“Only if you ask very nicely,” Bond parrots what Silva said earlier this morning, during breakfast.

Silva grins. “Would you trade? I tell you in what miraculous manner I fixed my documents, you let me drive your fabulous car.”

“No. I already know when you _fixed_ your documents.”

Annoyed, Silva crosses his arms. “Oh. Enlighten me.”

Bond takes a moment to reply, steering the Aston Martin onto an unpaved highway. Apparently they're taking the scenic route.

“When you were insomniac or just awake this night, don't know, don't care, you also stole my phone and called someone who is _supposed to be dead_.” Bond's knuckles turn white around the steering wheel.

Silva feels the blood drain from his face. Shit. He really hadn't suspected Bond to catch on, not on stealing the money but especially not on checking the call history of his phone. He absolutely needs to stop underestimating Bond, and he has to do so right now. Bond has already surprised him too often. And now he has shown remarkable efficiency in finding out what Silva did tonight. Even calling back the number.

“Life is full of surprises,” Silva replies weakly – it's the best he can come up with.

Silva sees Bond's fingers relax.

“The odd thing is, though,” Bond says thoughtfully, “you're apparently less of a cold-hearted, lunatic bastard than I thought you were.”

Bond looks sideways at Silva and then continues, “not saying you're not a cold-hearted lunatic bastard anyway. Killing innocents in Vauxhall Cross's explosion took care of that.”

“Like you're a bloody saint,” Silva snaps, unable to retain his stony façade. “You did a really nice job at that embassy back in 2006.”

“Oh, so because I am something I can't say others are, too? Or is it the other way around, and because I accuse you, you assume that I'm hypocritical and can't be myself? I'm not unaware of my past, Silva. Or should I say, _Tiago_ ,” Bond bites, and it hits Silva full, the force of the name, like something tangible.

Bond just goes on. “Because that seems the only thing that seems to rouse you, isn't it? The past? And because of it, you spend fifteen years trying to get one women to make amends for one decision she made. No offense, but that's slightly pathetic.”

“And why are you here,” Silva breathes heavily, “because you apparently forgave her so easily? If that were the case you wouldn't have lingered in Fethiye, letting your brain rot away with your pills and your drink. Not facing the truth. Not facing what happened. Because you're a coward.”

Bond clenches his jaw. “You have _no idea_ why I am here. And you could show a little fucking gratitude, I could instead also bring your sorry ass straight to bloody Belmarsh, and wish them good luck with you.”

Silva laughs, a lump in his throat making it sound choked, so loud it almost hurts. “I don't even _want_ to be here!”

“Oh, you thought you'd scare the life out of M and then calmly wander around London after that? You can't fucking believe that–”

And then Silva breaks.

“I would be _dead_. I, _should_ , be dead.”

“That was your plan?” Bond's voice is suddenly softer, not intending to maim Silva verbally, or psychologically. “Kill her and yourself along with her?”

Silva coldly says, “yes.”

It’s silent for a moment, and Bond takes the highway exit leading to a narrow, provincial road.

Then Bond unpleasantly surprises him by snorting. “You really are pathetic. Instead of trying to let it go, you kept clinging to the far, faraway idea of punishing her. You think you will feel better if you kill her?”

Silva's disbelief is growing with every word the fucking idiot utters. “Let go? Let go?! I take it she never put _you_ in a bloody cell and be tortured _every day_ by the fucking Chinese, who, for your information, as you seem to be _ignorant!_ on the fucking matter, _never stop?!_ I should just, let it go?” Silva flaps his hands around, laughing incredulously.

“You caused it yourself–”

“Oh _no_.”

Bond's head snaps around to look at him, the first time they made eye-contact since this, this fight, began.

Silva takes one deep breath, which escapes his mouth again as a mixture between a strangled chuckle and sob. “Oh no. Don't you dare go there, infamous double-oh seven. If there is anyone, _anyone_ in the history of MI6 who oversteps their bounds, it's you.”

“The file said–”

“The files _lie_!” Silva once again lets an incredulous laugh slip. “For fuck's sake, don't be so naïve. What they, what _she_ tells you never is the truth. She's sentimental about you. Marksmanship score 70, you couldn't actually have believed that.”

Bond suddenly swings the steering wheel around, making the car swerve into an inlet, a parking space for when oncoming traffic needs to pass. He throws open the door and marches off, leaving Silva alone in the Aston Martin.

Silva rubs his face and tries to calm himself down.  He struggles to breathe and wants to get some fresh air. He leans to the right, takes the keys out of the ignition and exits the car, which he locks. He pockets the keys carefully.

He can see Bond disappearing into a corn field, with just some pitiful dead and frozen over plants inhabiting the ground. The fields are stretching for seemingly miles and miles on the right-hand side of the road. Silva stalks away, into the opposite direction. He walks fast, to get the excess adrenaline, anger and _hurt_ out of his system. Because Bond knows where to poke him with a sharp stick to make it hurt.

Silva had suspected _She_ would tell Bond what had happened to _Tiago_ , but he had not foreseen that Bond would go as far as to dig up his files. Files, which were supposed to be locked and inaccessible. Silva’s last access to them was about a dozen years ago, before he sealed them in the MI6 database. No one would find that odd, unless someone would be looking for them, since there are all kinds of inaccessible and confidential files within the National Secret Service.

Silva scowls. It must have been the fucking new Quartermaster, stupid boy, because while Bond is no doubt slightly competent with IT, he wouldn't be able to decrypt Silva's lock on them.

Why did this Q even help Bond, did he owe him, or something? Or was he simply easily intimidated by Bond's infamy?

Silva walks for a while, going up on a hill, contemplating this. When he arrives at the top of the hill he turns around, and can still see the car. Somewhere far away, he can spot Bond, a tiny navy blue spot against a brown background. Silva turns away again and keeps walking.

Once again, eventually, he arrives at the issue of _what to do_ , and specifically, what to do with M and whether to pick up his plans where he left them lying. Despite what Bond told him – or rather, accused him of – when driving, Silva still feels that the only way he can get some peace of mind and feel absolved from his past, is to take her down and himself along with her.

But he gets a bit stuck on the last part. Against all common sense, he has enjoyed life the past... day. He felt like a normal human being – as far as that is even still a possibility – and took the liberty to see what the next day might bring. It was almost a culture shock, to go from control and careful planning to not knowing anything and seeing what happens.

Silva isn't sure he dislikes it.

And that is what worries him.

He sticks his hands in his pockets and frowns. Aside from his personal objections to or blessing of this little road trip, there's the case of former 00-operative James Bond to consider. Silva didn't think he could talk him round to leaving MI6, he just wanted to jerk the guy around on Hashima, and even on the plane. But now here they are, while M just had an agent take a shot. It was a fifty-fifty chance and she had to take it. It's not even close to what she did to Silva. Sure, Bond should blame her, and shouldn't forget what happened, but Silva didn't think it would be even a possibility that Bond, the oh-so-devout Bond, would leave his Queen and Country.

There must be something more to it, and he's going to find out what.

Silva feels the seed of his curiosity taking a firm hold in his mind. It will give him something to do while he tries to figure out what he wants. No small matter, and although Silva would like to deal with it as soon as possible, he wants to give himself the time to find out what he really wants.

Because, what it boils down to, Silva reasons, is that he has to re-invent himself after fifteen years. He already re-invented himself once and it was a costly, time-consuming, not altogether pleasant experience and it changed him, which was in a way the objective of course, but Silva wonders if there is even _one_ good quality that Tiago once possessed still with him.

He sighs, turns around and retraces his steps.

He jogs down the hill, and feels his knees and ankles creak and protest. By God, he is getting older and he feels it.

He knows he won't back down and Bond won't back down either, if his estimation of the man's behaviour isn't a hundred per cent incorrect. So they've arrived at an impassé. It will be so very interesting to see what happens next.

When Silva reaches the car, Bond is already back, leaning against the side. His new suit pants are caked with dirt – he apparently fell into a mud pool or such a thing, but he doesn't seem to care.

Silva doesn't look at him, but gently shoves him aside. He opens the driver's door and gets in. Before Bond can protest, he has already slammed the door shut. Bond has no choice but walk around the car and get into the passenger's seat.

Bond seems to be fuming, but has his jaw clenched. Silva can imagine he hears his teeth grate.

He carefully starts the car – the last thing he wants to do right now is to damage Bond's most beloved possession and never hear the end of it, especially now that they are on dangerous territory with each other.

The Aston Martin roars alive below him and Silva smiles, delighted. This truly is a piece of art. He carefully steps on the gas and the car's response is immediate. He steers it out of the inlet and back onto the road. He doesn't ask for directions, he will just follow this road and try to get back to the regular motorway when he gets the opportunity.

He tries to ignore the package of anger and rage that's seated left of him, and just enjoys the car, as much as he can manage. Then he realises – this is _Bond's most beloved possession_ and even though Bond could probably shoot him right now, he's still letting Silva drive it without threatening him with a painful death if he even fucks up the tiniest bit.

Silva chews on his bottom lip. What does this mean? Why can't he just figure this man out?

Next to him, Bond is gathering all the garbage (food and liquor) that's on the floor there. He holds out both of the remaining sandwiches for Silva to choose, remaining silent. He picks the one with chicken, also quietly. He tears open the package with his teeth, steering with one hand. He accidentally swings the steering wheel around and the car swerves a bit over the road before Silva regains control. He feels Bond's eyes burning holes in his face so he sheepishly grabs it very carefully, and only takes a bite of his sandwich on straight stretches of road.

As they remain silent and the road is a blur behind them, surprisingly enough, the tension dissolves. When they finally arrive at the motorway, Bond points at the petrol meter.

He takes the hint and drives them towards the nearest gas station. As per their earlier agreement, Silva goes inside to pay while Bond fills up the tank.

Silva casually looks at Bond through the dirty window of the shop while queuing to pay. His posture seems mostly relaxed, although there is some tension in his shoulders, but all in all it's not as bad as Silva expected it to be after what happened.

He feels a lot calmer himself, too, he thinks as hands his credit card to the guy behind the cash register. His thoughts are interrupted when the man says, “I'm sorry mate, but we don't accept this card here.”

“A dios mío,” Silva mumbles, under his breath while digging his wallet out of his pocket to get the cash money, meanwhile being annoyed about the 'mate'.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. Here.” He hands over the money, and takes the change.

“Have a nice day.”

Silva doesn't dignify him with a response and turns on his heel. When he gets back, he looks back at the guy, and he casually leans on the Aston Martin DB5 as he watches the man's mouth fall open. Then Silva raises his eyebrows, gives him a dirty smile and gets in, on the passenger's side, since Bond already settled himself in the driver's seat.

“What was that about,” Bond asks, when Silva eases the door shut and fastens his seatbelt.

“He called me 'mate'.”

“Oh.” Bond looks sideways to see whether he can drive away safely, then mutters, “now I _completely_ understand.”

Silva turns his face away from Bond to look outside, and smiles. He then notices that Bond is staring at him via the reflection, _again_ , and Silva looks at him curiously.

Bond looks at the road before them but his ears and neck have turned the slightest shade of red. Silva has to purse his lips to prevent himself from smiling again.

He leans his head against the window and prepares himself for the long drive ahead of them. The sky ahead of them is dark, there are thunder clouds up there.

Eventually, it starts raining.

The roar of the engine together with the rain on the roof of the car, and Silva's exhaustion caused by the lack of rest that night, eases him to sleep.

His dreams are less frightening than they sometimes are – in fact, they are kind of comforting. He dreams of being in MI6, when he was young, before everything got cocked up, before everything got complicated. He dreams of trying to become a double-oh agent, and winning M's attention, her affection. He dreams of returning from his first mission successfully, of killing someone for the first time. He dreams of M telling him harshly that this will be his life from now on and he will become desensitised fast, hopefully, and then he dreams of M's face softening and comforting him.

The sound of the engine turning off wakes him up. His face is wet.

He quickly wipes his eyes on his sleeve and sees that Bond respectfully turns away, before looking up at him again, when Silva has recovered. Bond's curiosity is badly hidden on his face.

When Silva tries to speak, it comes out as a creak and he clears his throat before he successfully asks, “where are we?”

Bond has to clear his throat too before he says, “Glasgow.”

“Oh.” Silva pulls out his phone and checks the time. It's almost 7 p.m. which means that he slept for more than 3 hours. He rolls his shoulders back and stretches as much as he can in the confined space. Then Bond places his hand on Silva's shoulder.

“I've taken the liberty of driving us to a restaurant. You hungry?”

Silva tries not to look down at his shoulder, because he fears that Bond will interpret that incorrectly and then will take his hand away. So Silva half-yawns, and realises that, yes, in fact, he is hungry. So he nods at Bond, who gives him a crooked smile before he gets out.

Silva follows him, and November's cold evening air freezes him almost immediately. He hurries after Bond, who's heading towards the restaurant's entrance.

He holds the door open for Silva, who smiles at him gratefully. Inside, it's warm, and both of them rub their hands together. It's nice in there, nothing fancy. It's more like a pub, with a couple of roaring hearth fires, robust wooden tables with matching chairs and a fairly low ceiling. A waitress with a kind face makes her way towards them.

“Good evening, can I help you?” She looks from Bond to Silva, expectantly. Silva marvels at her Scottish accent a bit. He can't help it, he just finds it pleasant to listen to.

“Yes,” Silva says, “we would like to have dinner.”

“Table for two?” she asks, already halfway turning around. To Silva, the question sounds suspiciously hopeful.

“Yes,” Bond says immediately.

She throws a broad smile over her shoulder at Bond and says, “follow me, please.”

She leads them towards a table in the corner of the restaurant, next to a fire, and entirely superfluously, lights the candle on the table. “I'll be right back with the menu.”

Silva is surprised she doesn't just giggle and clap her hands. Then he buries his face in his hands and groans.

“What,” Bond asks, taking one of the toothpicks from the table, ripping the plastic off and burning the little wooden stick in the candle's flame.

“Nothing.”

Bond rolls his eyes. “She thinks we're a couple, so what.”

“It's not a problem, but I swear to god, if we get ice cream with heart-shaped wafers on the house, and you laugh, I will kill you,” Silva promises quietly.

Bond seems surprised at Silva's lengthy outburst.

“You're touchy,” Bond smiles. “That means that it does matter to you!”

Luckily, or maybe not, the girl returns with the menus and asks, “would you like something to drink?”

Silva looks at Bond, who shrugs. Silva purses his lips, then turns towards the girl and says, “two pints of lager, please.”

“Great, on my way,” she says, and tucks her notepad in the front pocket of her skirt, and her pen behind her ear. Silva huffs as she walks away – despite what he just said, the girl's cheer is infectious, and he finds himself relaxing, basking in the warmth of the fire.

He checks out the menu and decides quickly. Bond is still trying to decide, drumming his fingers on the table.

“What are you going to take?” Bond asks, his face shielded by the menu card.

“Deer,” Silva answers.

“Hmm.”

“I suppose you're going to choose something with a lot of meat, no?”

The menu is lowered. “Why?” Bond asks, sounding suspicious.

“Because you were raised in England. Or Germany, whatever. So you either like greasy meat or, what is it, bratwürst?”

Bond grunts something unintelligibly.

Then the girl returns with their beer. “There you go,” she says, as she puts the glasses down. She looks at Silva and frowns a bit, looking slightly alarmed, before hesitatingly asking, “have you been able to make a decision yet?”

“Yes,” Silva answers, and Bond gives him a slightly panicked look.

“I'll have the deer, please.”

“The deer? Excellent.” She writes it down, then turns towards Bond, looking at him expectantly.

Eventually, after a painstakingly slow couple of seconds, Bond says, “I'll have whatever he has.”

“O-kay,” she chirps, having regained her previous cheer, takes the menus and is on her way again.

“I thought the Spanish,” Bond drawls out, “only ate fish. To keep it to the topic of prejudices.”

“Ohh,” Silva mockingly sounds surprised. “Tell me more! Do I also kill bulls for fun and am I an unemployed macho idiot?”

“Now that you say it like that,” Bond says, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward, “the 'macho idiot' part sounds quite familiar.”

“Now, you, on the other hand,” Silva says, pointing at Bond, before mirroring his pose, “are just as stuck-up and emotionally incompetent as the British stereotype. And you also have Scottish blood, no?”

Silva emphasises the 'no'. He had to work hard to get that out of his speech and acquire the RP accent MI6 likes. Over the years, on Hashima, he has lost the accent again, but soit. He is also extremely careful to keep his tone playful, to keep this whole conversation light-hearted. He knows that if this merry back-and-forth poking becomes too serious, they'll have a repetition of the scene of the afternoon, which he would like to prevent.

“So,” Silva continues, “you're also unapproachable. And sometimes unintelligible.” He smiles dangerously.

Bond does, too. “And you're not? With your Spanish accent?”

“Oh! So you, what, thought that _I_ was unintelligible? Wait, so you do know what that word means, yes?”

Bond purses his lips but can't keep a straight face any longer, and chuckles. He leans back, draping his elbow over the back of his chair, still smiling broadly.

Silva smiles back at him before picking up the burned toothpick, and continues blackening it in the flame.

The girl appears at their table again, and looks at their untouched beers curiously. “I was going to ask if you wanted anything else to drink, but apparently not. Pyromaniacs,” she laughs. “Your food is almost ready.”

Silva nods at her, still smiling.

Then they pick up their glasses.

“What is the toast?” Silva asks.

Bond licks his lips. “Let's keep it simple, shall we? To a wonderful evening?”

“Sure. To a wonderful evening.”

They raise their glasses, looking into each other's eyes, and clink them together, before taking a sip.


	17. Chapter 15

They dine comfortably and tastefully, enjoying their food immensely. When Silva proposes to have another beer, Bond – surprisingly – declines.

“I'm not going to drunk drive and get us killed. What would be the point, then?”

Silva inclines his head, does not ask any questions, and orders a jug of water and two glasses.

When they're done and ready to go, Silva asks the girl for the receipt. “Can I pay with a credit card, here?”

She pulls a funny face. “Of course, why wouldn't you?”

“Nothing, no reason _at all_ ,” Silva mutters before standing up to follow her to the counter. He looks at Bond over his shoulder and shrugs, Bond mirroring the motion before he stands up as well and joins Silva and the girl.

Silva hands over his card to the waitress, who hands it back to him when she is done with it.

“Have a pleasant evening,” she laughs.

“Same to you,” Silva and Bond say, in unison.

_Scary,_ Silva thinks. When they leave the restaurant Silva notices that the waitress is looking after Silva, again with that frown on her face. As he can’t place it, he decides to ignore it for now.

“How much longer?” Silva asks when they're back in the car and back on the road.

Bond rolls his eyes. “Are you already whining about it?”

Silva doesn't dignify him with a response.

For the second time that day, Bond says, “don't sulk. It's just an hour or so, maybe a little longer.”

Silva smiles.

It's a clear night. Silva entertains himself by looking at constellations, and seeing new ones every time Bond makes a turn. Eventually they arrive on the unpaved road that, Bond tells him, “will get us to our destination.”

Silva tries to look at their surroundings, but it's so dark he can't see anything except that which is lit by the headlights of the car. After fifteen minutes or so, Bond slows down and squints.

“What, are we lost?” Silva asks worriedly.

“No, you twit. I just don't want to drive into a stone wall.”

Bond apparently sees where he needs to go and turns right. Silva can slightly make out the contour of a wall and what seems to be a pillar, but he can't see anything else.

However, when he looks straight ahead, he sees a huge dark shadow. A house, apparently, but not just any house. A true monster – it's absolutely huge.

Silently, Bond drives up to a couple of metres from the front door before he parks the car and kills the engine. He rests his hands on the steering wheel and Silva sees that he's clenching and unclenching his fists around it.

This time, Silva places a careful hand on Bond's tense shoulder. “Come on,” he says.

Bond looks at him with a miniscule lopsided smile, and then they leave the Aston. Bond walks around the car and opens the trunk, and pulls out a torch. Silva doesn't ask and Bond doesn't comment.

Making his way towards the door, following Bond, Silva looks up. It is _really_ gargantuan.

“ _Cristo_ ,” Silva mutters, “no wonder you never went back here.”

“Hmm,” Bond grunts noncommittally.

Bond digs a key out of his pocket – so, that, Silva observes, was the object he took from the desk in the garage box. He opens the door, which doesn't creak on apparently well-oiled hinges, and presses the switch on the flashlight.

Then, the floor creaks, and both of the men swirl around, hands moving towards their guns (then Silva realises he left his own in his police uniform in the trunk of the car. Careless, stupid, those kind of mistakes will kill you).

Then the mysterious source roars, “James. James Bond.”

“Good God,” Bond stammers. “Are you still alive?”

“It's nice to see you, too.”

Then the man who is still alive flips a switch and the lights flicker on. A huge, broadly grinning man whose calm demeanour is contradicted by the shotgun in his hands, is revealed to Silva.

“Electricity's still working, m'boy,” the man says to Bond.

“Silva,” Bond says, “this is Kincade. Gamekeeper here since I was a boy.”

When Kincade takes a good look at Silva, his face turns gloomy, but he still says, “pleasure to meet you.”

“Mr. Kincade,” Silva nods.

Turning back to Bond, Kincade says, “you're a tad late. They've sold the place when they thought you were dead.”

“It seems they were wrong.”

“What are you doing here?” Kincade asks, finally putting his shotgun down on the gigantic table spanning the length of the room.

“It's...” Bond licks his lips. “Complicated,” he says finally.

Silva decides he should give the two a moment, and go away and come up with a lie if that turns out to be necessary. He places a hand on Bond's shoulder, and says, “I'll go take our stuff from the car. Can I have the keys?”

Bond's eyes meet his, and Silva sees the question in them. When Bond, however, hands him the keys without comment, Silva squeezes his hand which rewards him with an even _more_ curious glance from the agent.

Silva walks out of the house, opens the trunk, and gets out his gun. He stands with it in his hands, and eventually decides to just stick it down the front of his pants. For good measure, he scoops out their clothing, closes the trunk and locks the car.

Then he crouches back towards the front door, which is still standing open. He presses himself against the wall on the outside and eavesdrops.

“... not stupid, James,” Kincade says. “I went to the pub in Glencoe and I saw _his_ face all over the news.”

That explains the waitress’s slightly alarmed behaviour. Probably she faintly recognised Silva, but didn’t realise she had seen him on the news. Fuck. Silva had completely forgotten about that. _Careless, careless!_

“You have to trust me.” That's Bond. “Kincade. Please. I know what I'm doing.”

It's quiet for a moment.

Then Silva hears a sigh. “All right, I believe you,” Kincade says. “But my boy, do me a favour, and be careful.”

“You know I always am,” Bond says, and Silva can hear from his voice that Bond's smiling. Wait – what? When did Silva become privy to such knowledge?

Silva can feel Kincade's roaring laughter reverberate in his chest. Silva decides this is a good moment to walk inside, his face carefully neutral.

Kincade is still laughing a bit, but Bond looks at Silva sharply.

Kincade sees the men exchanging looks and clears his throat. "You know what," he starts, "I'll just leave you two here, I suppose you have a lot to discuss." He turns towards Bond and says, "there's food in the kitchen, and the hot water should work too. I'll go back to Glencoe, and if you need me, you know who to call, right?"

Bond smiles. "I do. Thanks, Kincade." After a slight hesitation, he adds, "for everything."

Kincade nods, grips Bond's hand and shakes it firmly. He makes his way for the front door, and when he passes Silva, the men nod at each other. Silva sees that Bond watches Kincade leave with a sort of nostalgic look on his face.

"Did you miss it?" Silva asks, carefully.

"What exactly? This godforsaken gigantic house? The fact that your fingers freeze off in winter?"

Silva shakes his head. "The familiarity, I meant. Being where you grew up."

Bond purses his lips. "I... I don't know," he sighs. "Come, let's make a fire, it's bloody cold in here. There's a shed behind the house, could you see if there's firewood there?"

"Sure. Can I have the torch?" Silva places their clothes on the table and takes the torch from Bond. Their fingers brush.

Silva turns around and walks out. He sees a tiny spot of light strolling off in the distance, apparently Kincade and a large dog-like shape at his side. Silva sighs – he can't blame the man for condemning him. He knows what it looks like for everyone who isn't familiar with the details, and of those that are, only Bond is on his side. Or, maybe even he isn't. Even Silva isn't sure if he's on his own side. Moreover, how can he expect anyone to support him if he doesn't know what he wants himself?

He finds his way to the shed, stumbling over grass or tree stumps or whatever is growing on the moor. He shines his torch around and quickly sees the pile of firewood. He puts the torch between his teeth, careful not to overstretch his jaw because he knows if he does, his prosthesis will _hurt_ like a _bitch_. Scooping up some firewood, careful not to get splinters in his fingers.

The door of the mansion is shut, and Silva can't open it. He repeatedly kicks against it until it is opened.

"You blithering fucking idiot. Come here," Bond takes the torch from between Silva's teeth and shuts the door behind him again.

"Where should I put this?" Silva asks, ignoring the remark Bond made.

"I've already got a fire going with some old newspapers I found, come," Bond says and leads Silva through a hallway to another room, a smaller one. It appears to be a study, with a couple of bookcases lining the wall and a desk. There's already a small fire burning in the fireplace, as Bond promised, and there's an animal fur on the floor in front of it.

Bond kneels down on it. Silva dumps the wood on the floor beside the fireplace and hands three pieces to Bond, who throws them into the fire. For a moment they sit there, calmly, staring at the crackling flames. Then Bond gets up with a grunt.

"I'll be right back."

It turns out to take a while, and Silva is left alone with his thoughts.

Staring into the flames, images of Vauxhall Cross exploding come to mind. When it happened, he was filled with all kinds of emotions and feelings about it. He felt angry, and hurt, but also a sense of satisfaction at finally making getting closer in getting back at her.

Right now, when he thinks back on it, he feels nothing, only a lingering wisp of regret at killing six innocents.

For some reason, what he did, seems petty.

Then Bond re-enters the room, and he is emitting cold and Silva feels it when Bond kneels down next to him. Apparently he has gone back to the car, as Bond places the Macallan and Bollinger next to Silva, as well as some food. Then he gets up again, and returns only a few seconds later with their clothing and blankets. He throws the latter at Silva and says, "make yourself comfortable."

Silva does as he says, sitting on the soft animal fur, crossing his legs. He puts a blanket around his shoulders.

Bond sits down next to him and hands him two glasses, then leans forward to pick up the Macallan. He opens it and motions for Silva to hold out the glasses, which Bond fills almost to the brim. He puts the bottle away, takes one glass from Silva and raises it.

Silva mirrors his motion, than tips back the contents down his throat. It burns gloriously and he feels warmer immediately.

“Ahh. That's the good stuff,” he mutters to himself.

After that, it's silent for a while, besides the crackling of the flames and the intermittent sound of Bond filling their glasses again.

It's only when they’re well on their way with their second glasses, that Bond speaks.

“Next time you want to know something, don't eavesdrop. That's considered rude.”

Silva almost isn't surprised. Does this man just wildly guess and gets lucky everytime? Again, so hypocritical, too. Eavesdropping is what agents do.

“Your face is too easy to read,” Bond says.

Now he can read Silva's mind too. Silva has spent years trying to create a good mask, but apparently, he can't hold any secrets for James fucking Bond.

“So stop trying,” Bond advises.

Silva hums noncommittally, and throws another piece of wood into the fire.

“What, don't you have anything to say?”

“What do you want to hear?” Silva quips. “An apology? I won't mean it. 'I will never do it again'? Won't mean it. If there's nothing to say one might as well shut up.”

Bond snorts at that. “Are you the same person who held an incessant speech about rats on an island?”

Silva gives him a lopsided smile.

“I suppose Kincade was right,” Bond continues, “we do have a lot to discuss.”

“Well, throw it out. What do you want to talk about?”

“M.”

Silva breathes in deeply – luckily he kind of saw it coming.

“What about her,” he demands.

“No, I am asking _you_ 'what about her',” Bond says tersely. “What is your plan? I knew you were planning to kill her, has that changed?”

When Silva opens his mouth to say something, anything, even though he can't answer the question, Bond is ahead of him.

“Because I can't let you.”

Oh?

“Who are you to take that decision out of my hands,” Silva barks.

“Someone with a certain interest as well,” Bond snaps back at him.

“I thought you blamed her for almost having you killed?”

“I did, I do, I...” Bond shakes his head. “But I can _not_ let you kill her.”

“You're going to have to explain yourself if you even want a chance of me heeding your remark,” Silva warns.

“I don't owe you anything.”

“Oh, but you do,” Silva says darkly. “You prevented me from carrying out my plan. You had me throw away fifteen years of work, so if I tell you to explain yourself, don't say I ask too much. Because you owe me much, much more.”

Silva sees that Bond is hesitating, doubting, that he doesn't know what to say.

Eventually, almost choking on his words, Bond says, “could you take my word for it, my word that I have a good reason?”

Silva looks at him with a pained expression. “That's asking very much,” Silva says with a lump in his throat. _Yes, yes_ , take his word. Part of him desperately wants to. Wants to give himself over to Bond, to lay down his weapons and make peace.

“I know. I'm asking you to take a leap of faith. And... that's hard.” Bond says it as if it's simple.

“It's not so simple.”

“On the contrary,” Bond grunts. “It's very simple. It's not _easy_ , but it is very _simple_. I need your word that you won't harm M – you have to promise it. That's all.”

And Bond looks at him with bright blue eyes, pleading him to take the jump and let himself fall, and fall, and fall, and see where he lands.

But Silva doesn't know if he can take the risk. Tiago might have. Would have, would have put his faith in this man. This man who understands... _everything_.

Bond's words echo in his mind. _Because Tiago Rodriguez is a good man_.

Silva swallows and closes his eyes

“You don't have to decide now,” Bond says softly. “But I'd like an answer soon.”

Silva opens his eyes, but Bond is staring into the fire. Then he looks around and meets Silva's gaze.

He nods tersely, and Bond smiles sparsely.

Both of them take a deep breath and some of the tension seems to leave the room, maybe going up through the chimney, together with the smoke – anyway, it seems easier for Silva to breathe.

Then Bond rifles through the stuff he brought from the kitchen. He pulls out a package of sausages and holds it up, raising his eyebrows.

“Sure,” Silva says. “Do you want to roast them on the fire?” he then asks suspiciously.

Bond grins. “I never got to be part of the boy scouts, I have to make up for it somehow, right?” He rips open the pack and spears two sausages on the iron poker. He puts it up against the iron rail in front of the fire, so they get roasted in the heat. Then Bond pours them some more Macallan.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

After that, it remains quiet.

And it's fine.

Silva starts nodding off, and Bond wakes him up a couple of times by jabbing him in the side with the elbow.

The fourth time, Silva feels Bond's hands brush over his own and take the glass out of his hand. Bond leans forward to take the sausages away from the fire (although they're burned already), puts them aside and pulls Silva up by the elbow.

Through a haze of sleep, Silva feels how Bond re-drapes the blanket over his shoulders and leads him away from the comfortable warmth of the fire. Luckily, Bond doesn't take him far – he walks to the adjacent room on the right, where there's a bed. Bond leaves and when he comes back, Silva has already taken off his shoes and suit jacket and crawled beneath the sheets.

Bond dumps some more blankets on top of him, then stands beside his bed. Silva mutters, “smmthing wrng?”

He sees Bond shake his head, and then his vision grows blurry and blurrier, and then sleep takes him.

In the middle of the night, at least that what he assumes, he wakes up again. His teeth are chattering and he can't feel his toes – his feet aren't under the blankets.

Although the cold implores him to stay in bed and try to curl up to warm up, but the pressure on his bladder demands his attention. Cursing, he flings the blankets off and stands up. He stumbles before he can catch himself on the doorpost, blinking the stars out of his head.

He turns right, and luck has it in him for him – he's found the bathroom.

When he's done, he lets hot water run over his hands, and it turns out Kincade was telling the truth after all. He warms his hands thoroughly, although it hurts, until they are red from the heat.

He trudges back to the room he was sleeping in, but then sees the shine of light coming from the room next to it – the room with the fireplace. If Bond had gone to bed too, the fire would've likely died out. So either the fire spread or Bond is awake, and both are incentives enough for Silva to decide to go and take a look.

He sticks his head into the room carefully – if Bond's asleep there, he wouldn't want to disturb him up. Accidentally and unfortunately, that's exactly what happens.

Bond seems to notice his presence, or has simply heard him. Silva jumps when he speaks. “I'm awake.”

Silva hesitantly steps into the room, into the inviting warmth of the fire. Bond is lying on his side, his body turned towards the fire, leaning his head on his hand. Silva sits down next to him, but Bond scoops over and makes room for him on the animal fur. Silva gladly sits down where Bond has already warmed the floor, and he stretches his legs to let his feet warm up. Then he thinks the better of it and peels off his socks – wouldn't want some kind of spark to set his feet afire.

Silva sighs, enjoying the heat. Then he looks to his left, where Bond is lounging, eyes closed.

“Couldn't you sleep?”

“Mm,” Bond grunts. “Not really tired.” Then Bond opens his eyes and looks at him. “What about you? Woke up?”

“Cold,” Silva mutters. Although, he feels quite awake now. He did sleep in the car, of course, but the cold from getting out of bed _really_ woke him up.

“Still cold?” Bond asks.

“A bit.”

Then Bond holds out his arm and beckons for Silva to come to him. Silva looks at him, slightly confused, but Bond rolls his eyes and gestures again.

Hesitantly, Silva shuffles a bit closer, but Bond grabs him by the back of his shirt and pulls him down, against his chest.

“Well,” Silva mutters, his body completely tense, “that was unexpected.”

“Christ,” Bond murmurs, and it's so close to Silva's ear that he can feel the man's warm breath. “You're cold, I'm warm, it's not so hard. Relax.”

But this isn't simple. However, Silva wills himself to relax, and eases his back against Bond's chest.

It fits.

They fit.

Silva casually thinks about that, and only a couple of seconds later realises the implication of that thought.

_They fit_.

“What's up,” Bond says, and Silva can _feel_ his voice. “You're tensing up all over again. Are you comfortable?”

Silva parrots what he says in his mind. Is he comfortable? Yes, and that's the problem. He remembers what he told himself on the plane back to London. Liking this man, getting attached to him, even, could make carrying out his plan problematic.

And look at them now.

“Hey,” Bond says. “You okay?”

Silva snaps back into it. “Yes, sorry.”

Bond leans back, letting Silva slide off his chest and onto the ground – he's now lying on his back. Bond hovers over him and surprises him by softly saying, “I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, although,” Bond suddenly grins, “I guess we're even now.”

Silva grins up at him. “True. But you should know I never go down without a fight.” Silva lunges for Bond's wrists and tackles him, pinning him down on the floor, his knees on either side of Bond's torso.

“Two one for me,” Silva says, one eyebrow raised.

“Apparently, you don't know me well enough, because _I never lose_.”

Silva should have seen it coming, he really should have. But he doesn't and then he's back in his previous position, but Bond is pinning his wrists above his head with one hand and no matter how hard Silva squirms, he can't get away.

“Damn you,” Silva growls.

“Tut tut, Mr Silva,” Bond says, eyes shining brightly.

And then it's too much and Silva feels tears welling up and he blinks them away furiously. At Bond's alarmed look, he says, with a pleading tone to his voice, “say it, say my name.”

Bond's mouth falls open a bit and he searches Silva's face – undoubtedly for this sudden mood reversal.

Only when Silva mouths, “please,” Bond yields.

“Tiago,” he softly says.

He closes his eyes, breathing heavily. He feels how Bond releases his death grip on his wrists and brings his hands to his side, allowing the blood to flow back into his numb fingers.

“Tiago,” Bond says again.

He feels a hand on his cheek and his eyes flutter open.

Bond meets his eyes and he isn't sure what he sees in those bright eyes. He looks for an anchor and he finds it, finds it and grips it.

Then Bond leans in and all of it, everything, it doesn't matter, because Bond presses his lips against his own softly and whispers softly, “Tiago. I am here.”

Silva isn't sure if 'I love you' still even has meaning for him. They're empty, empty words. Sure, it's nice to hear, he supposes, but it has been used to hurt him so many times before. No, the three most beautiful words in the English language are, to Silva, 'I am here'. Because that's at least useful, isn't it? That's true regardless of the circumstances. Someone who's by your side, when you are lonely, or sad, or hurt, or angry, or alone, or fearful, or old, sick, dying, in pain. I am here.

Silva wants to say something, but he's glad he's lying down because his knees feel weak anyway and he's trembling. He wants to thank Bond.

But then he stops fighting, stops fighting against the embrace of sleep, stops fighting against the warmth of Bond's body, pressed flush against his own. And then sleep takes him and he lets go.


	18. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of smut in this chapter.

Bond watches his lips move, then sees his eyelids flutter, until they close. The man underneath him starts trembling and Bond wraps his arms around him as best as he can without disturbing him. He buries his face in the crook of Silva's neck and breathes out deeply. He lies still until he's completely sure Silva's asleep, then relaxes a bit.

Shit. Well, this has become an unforeseen... complication? Is it a complication, actually? Is it just not 'it', something that has happened? Bond isn't sure.

Regardless, he's glad his face is hidden. From what, from whom? Maybe from the house, and all the memories it represents. It makes him feel out of harm's way; safe from everything this godforsaken crumbling mansion means – meant – to him, once.

The question that needs be answered now, is whether to come clean to Silva. If he does, the man will feel used, or worse, abused. If he doesn't tell, however, and Silva finds out later... there will be bloody hell to pay.

Bond closes his eyes and tries to sleep, to escape, to not have to make yet another impossible decision. If only it were so easy.

Luckily, however, he's exhausted, and as he softly breathes against the neck of a terrorist, a man who is a threat for his country, a threat for all he once loved so dearly, James Bond peacefully falls asleep.

**

Silva wakes up from the light, shining directly into his eyes. He squints, white pain throbbing behind his eyes. The windows are barricaded, but there's a hole in one of the wooden boards. Then he becomes aware of the weight on his abdomen, the arms slung over his chest, and a spot of warmth in his neck in the otherwise early, cool morning.

The memories of the previous night flood back, and Silva sighs. In the light of day, and sobered up, with the headache to prove it, he reviews his actions and behaviour as exemplary of his weakness. And weakness, well… That's never a good thing.

He sighs again, and carefully lifts up Bond's arms and shuffles aside. When he has released himself from the uncomfortably comfortable tangle of limbs, he stands up, and immediately groans and grabs at his head.

He shuffles out of the room and into the next, to get his clothes, accompanied by a continuous string of obscenities, muttered under his breath, aimed at himself.

Blaming himself brings a sense of familiarity, albeit a faint one. It's a feeling from before he started blaming _Her_.

He picks up his shoes and sits down on the bed to put them on, then puts on his suit jacket. He looks around for his coat, then realises it's in the other room. Restarting the stream of mental swearing, he makes his way back into the room, gets his new coat and digs the pack of cigarettes out of his old pants, then leaves again.

He loses his way twice in the halls and corridors before he finds the front door. He opens it and the cold wind almost pushes him back inside. It makes his eyes water. Through a hole in the grey sky, the sun burns brightly on his retina, doing nothing good for his increasing headache. He stumbles towards a nearby tree stump and sits down on it. He pulls out a cigarette and tries to light it, but the wind won't let him. He turns his back towards the damned wind, cursing colourfully, and succeeds after a few more finger-burning, failed attempts.

By the time Silva's about to finish his second cigarette, he hears the door behind him open, a faint pull on the door handle in the howling wind.

"Are you going to stay out there to freeze, on purpose?" Bond yells from out the door.

Silva turns around and sees that the agent, or maybe-not-agent, is fumbling with tying his shoes, balancing on one leg. Silva can't suppress a slight smile and holds up his hand with the cigarette, to indicate to Bond that he's smoking. He can tell Bond squints, then he continues to tie his shoe laces and pulls the door closed behind him, before making his way towards Silva.

"Got one left for me?" Bond asks when he stands next to Silva, hands in the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunched up against the wind. Silva sees that his eyes are a bit red-rimmed and his hair sticks up ridiculously in places. Then he realises that he himself can't look a lot better, and he's smoking as well. Poor display.

Nevertheless, he pulls out the pack and offers it to Bond, who takes it, deliberately brushing their fingers. Silva gives him a look.

Then Bond offers the pack to Silva, and he hesitates, wants to shake his head, but then he mentally shrugs. Ah, what the hell. He takes another one from the pack. There aren't that many left -- not as much as he'd like, at least.

Bond offers to light it for him and Silva obliges, leaning forward. Bond cups his hand, to prevent the flame from sputtering out.

"Scoot over."

Bond sits down left of Silva.

Then they sit on a small tree stump, a few centimetres apart. Silva leans against Bond a bit, who leans back, and Silva finds it surprisingly comfortable, sitting shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee. They smoke in silence, and when Bond is halfway through his cigarette, he changes it from his right to his left hand, and casually rests his right hand on Silva's knee.

Silva's thigh muscles tense automatically, and he has to deliberately let himself relax. Again; poor display, he chastises himself.

Bond looks at him in a peculiar way, as if to ask if it's okay, and Silva finds himself nodding subconsciously. Bond squeezes his knee, then lets his hand rest. Silva crushes his cigarette butt on the stump, then puts the butt into his pocket. Blowing out the last puff of smoke away from Bond's face, he places his own hand over Bond's, not looking at him.

It feels... nice. Human contact, skin to skin. That's one of the most important ways to forge connections with another human being, or even just another animal, apparently.

Bond flicks his cigarette away, crushing it underneath his heel. Then he clears his throat, and Silva looks up at him expectantly, but the words don't come.

Then Silva gets up, pulling Bond along with him. “Come,” he says, “I always find it's easier to walk and talk than sit and talk.”

Bond laughs quietly. “You're right, I agree.”

They walk side by side for a while, not speaking. The seconds turn into metres turn into minutes. Eventually, when Silva can't feel his toes, ears and fingers anymore, Bond talks.

“So, what did you want to talk about,” he says, softly the words almost blown away by the wind that's playing with his hair.

Silva shrugs. “You bloody well know what we need to talk about,” he says, but without any anger in his words, his tone mostly level, except on the word 'we'.

He's tired, still tired, always tired. Not just from the bad nights, no sleep, no, he tires of living without a cause.

Now Bond shrugs. “'m sorry,” he mumbles.

Silva whips his head around. Did he hear that correctly?

“But it's your move,” Bond continues. The question hangs in the air, unspoken.

Silva slightly changes direction, to keep the mansion within his sight. He wonders what to say, but the truth is, that decision is simply impossible to make.

He has told _Her_ what he wanted to, in a way, perhaps not with the drama and impact he imagined, but still. He has also shown _Her_ what she did to him. The surprise attack approach won't work now that she knows he is alive.

Dark clouds are gathering in the already grey sky above them, and a faint rumbling seems to be in the air. Silva can't help but think that it reflects his mood.

Eventually, Silva says, “so, I... convince me, then.”

Bond looks at him with a questioning look on his face. “Why? This isn't about us, you know what the stakes are and I can't change them.”

Silva's empty eyes find Bond's.

“Unless,” Bond's tongue darts out to lick his lips and Silva can't help but watch, “you _want_ me to make it personal.”

A snow flake lands on Bond's head and both Silva and Bond look up simultaneously to look at the sky, suddenly flecked with a thousand white flakes.

Silva looks back down at Bond, who's still staring up. His throat looks very pale and Silva wonders if he's as cold as he himself is.

“What would you do if I said yes?”

Bond looks at him, eyes burning. “Yes to what?” he asks coyly, playfully, dancing around the meaning of the words.

Silva can only _just_ prevent himself from rolling his eyes, but it doesn't seem appropriate at this moment. “Yes to, make this personal.”

“Make this personal, what?”

Looking at him sharply, Silva takes a step closer, turning his head away but still has gazes locked with Bond. “You're not expecting me to beg, are you?”

“What if I am?” Bond steps closer too.

“Well, fuck you then.” Silva moves to walk away, but then turns back, grabs Bond's coat by its lapels, pulls him close and presses his lips against the other man's.

Bond stumbles towards, and steadies himself by placing his hands on Silva's arms. After a surprised noise, Bond's lips slightly part.

Silva pulls back to breathe and lick Bond's lower lip, then lets go of his coat and places his hands on Bond's face, pulling him even closer, so their bodies are flush together. Bond fists one hand in Silva's hair, and Silva feels his fingers winding strands around them, pulling softly, and wraps the other around Silva's torso.

Before he can start thinking unwelcome thoughts, he hungrily presses their mouths together again, and delights in the noises Bond makes. When Bond deepens their kiss, Silva can't hold back a moan himself, and they bite and lick and kiss until they're out of breath and Bond holds him close, foreheads pressed together.

It's very intimate.

When Silva realises that that is the feeling he's feeling, he pulls away, and reaches up to untangle Bond's hand from his hair. He gets an odd look from the man, but starts walking away to the mansion.

It takes a while for Bond to follow him, and when he catches up with Silva he feels the man's emotions burning.

He risks a glance sideways and to his relief sees no anger in Bond's face or demeanour. His pupils seem to be a little bit blown and his gait is confident, and he grins when he sees that Silva is looking him up and down.

Silva looks at him for one more moment, then forces himself to look straight ahead. He speeds up, the blasted snowflakes falling into his hair and melting into his neck, sending a cold shiver over his spine.

Bond notices, looks at him, and says, after what seems to be a moment's hesitation, very suavely, "I can warm you up."

Silva rolls his eyes at him and pulls his collar up, shoulders hunched. Bloody northeners. He should have stayed in Spain. Sun, sea, warmth. Or just Gunkanjima. Everything besides fucking Scotland, with its moors, and its cold, and its snow.

The only good thing the country has produces, is walking right beside him. But that thing might turn out to be not so good after all.

Everything is already fucked. He might as well try to enjoy it while it lasts, before everything that's now crumbling comes crashing down. Hard.

When they arrive at the mansion, and Silva's hands have gone almost completely numb, Bond opens the door and allows Silva to enter first.

"After you."

"Of course." The effect goes awry by Silva's chattering teeth. Hesitantly, he stays standing in the enormous room, but Bond makes his way towards the hallway, and then the room in which they spent the previous night.

Once there, Bond flings the door shut (to what purpose remains a mystery to Silva – unless Bond expects Kincade coming back, but the old man already thought they were fucking, or at least that Silva was fucking Bond, or fucking _with_ Bond, so it wouldn't matter if he actually saw him do it, or...?) Silva squints harshly, trying to make the rambling in his mind go away.

Bond digs his hands in the arms of Silva's coat and pulls it off, throws it over the back of a chair, then advances until Silva is captured between Bond and the closed door – ah, so that was what it is for.

Bond smiles at him, showing teeth but still, in a weird way, gently.

Silva grins back at him before kissing him, but teasingly, nipping his way from the corner of his mouth to his stubbled jaw (the courtesy of not shaving) then down to his neck. His skin and lips will get raw from grazing along that stubble, but he couldn't care less. Bond starts opening the buttons of Silva's shirt.

He lets him, and sucks on a spot on Bond's neck – put a nice mark on him. Proof of ownership. In a way, it's exhilarating, to own something, or someone, as special as this. Silva remembers when he first got a sports car, and it's that feeling, but multiplied at least ten times.

Bond inhales sharply and he leaves Silva's clothes alone for a moment, before trying to get them off of Silva more forcefully.

"Hey, careful," Silva murmurs against the soft skin of Bond's neck, "we just bought these clothes."

"So?"

"Meaning, if you destroy them, we will have to walk around naked—" Bond snorts "—and as fascinating as that sounds, I will likely freeze to death and then it'll be over with the fun."

"What fun," Bond growls, "you haven't been any fun.

Then Silva pulls Bond's sweater off and laughs as the man gets stuck in it.

"Fuck you," Bond murmurs darkly, eventually clawing the blasted thing off, before pressing his lips on Silva's, and this time it's more passionate, and Silva feels hot sparks traveling down to his groin soon, the stream flowing and growing and before he knows it he's almost rutting against Bond and it's embarrassing and he shouldn't care but he does.

Bond pulls back to breathe, chest heaving, then, despite Silva's warnings, rips his shirt open. With a satisfied moan, Bond then lets his hand roam over Silva's scarred torso.

Silva sees Bond's eyes growing wide for a split second, but then he manages to hide it. Silva decides he doesn't want to linger on the thought and leans against Bond's hands, non-verbally asking for more.

And that's exactly what he gets. Bond leans in, carefully, gently, and bites Silva's lower lip, but softly.

Silva closes his eyes, allows his body to react to what's happening, then kisses back ferociously. He brings a hand up to Bond's face, tangles his fingers in the short hair, pulls hard, delights in the gasps that evokes from the man in front of him. Bond steps forward, a thigh between Silva's legs, chest to chest, skin contact, burning.

And oh, Bond knows how to handle him. It certainly doesn't disappoint Silva, the way Bond touches, moves.

Then, he wants more, wants to lead, so he pushes Bond back, thumbs digging in the hollows beneath his clavicles. Bond reaches for the fly on Silva's trousers. When they arrive at the rug they kissed last night, Silva hooks his foot around Bond's ankle (first thing you learn at training) and can't hold back a delighted chuckle when Bond falls, but Silva makes sure he lands safely. Wait – did Bond not know, that is unlikely, he had the same training, so he knew and let him and – mouth on his distracting him. _Stop thinking._

Bond holds Silva off for a moment. "You alright?" he mutters.

"Yeah," Silva breaths out heavily. "Why?" Why does Bond destroy everything that is good?

"Seem distant," Bond pants quietly. "Like... Like you don't really want to be here."

Narrowing his eyes, Silva regards him. Was he really so distracted by his thoughts? Did he – oh no, there we go again. _Shut it down, stop it_.

"I," Silva starts, licking his lips. He sees that Bond's eyes shoot down before looking into his own again. "No."

Silva presses his lips against Bond's, but he pushes Silva away.

"What, no what?"

"No, you're wrong. Now for fuck's sake," Silva murmurs darkly. "Take off the rest of your clothes."

Bond grins. Good.

Now everything is as it is supposed be – oh, this is going to be just fine.

They make short work of each other's clothes, not wasting any more breath on words needing to be said, or not said, simply and frantically pressing flush against other.

Then Bond leans his face up, close, and he kisses Silva, and deeply and passionately and Silva (afterwards) hates to admit it, but he melts into the man's arms, lets himself be devoured. It isn't about trust, no, they have passed that point when they stepped into Bond's car to go on a fucking road trip, it's about surrendering to each other.

Bond leans back, only to ask, between kisses, “what,” groans, “do... you want?”

“Fuck me,” it's out there before he even realises.

Bond slightly raises his eyebrows before he masks it with a quick smile. Liar. “With pleasure.”

“So stop fucking talking, Bond,” Silva growls, bringing Bond's hand up to his face and coating two of his fingers in his own spit. Reckless, fast. This is how it's supposed to be. Is it how it's supposed to be?

Bond inclines his head, the gentleman he is, somewhere deep inside, or is it just a façade? Why hasn't he met this man earlier, all the things they could have accomplished – Bond brings his hand down, other in Silva's neck, fingers pulling on his hair.

Silva has his fingers buried in Bond's shoulders and he doesn't care if he's going to leave marks there, despite his willingness he's tensing up, it has been a while.

“Ready?” Bond whispers in his ear, gently, but Silva's patience is wearing thin.

“Yes,” he rasps, and when Bond's fingers enter him, he clenches, it hurts _fuck it hurts_ but then Bond's blows hot air in his neck and hushes, and he lets go, relaxes, and suddenly feels that long-forgotten sensation that makes all other feelings go away, feels filled. Silva pushes up, towards his fingers, and _fuck –_

“Yes,” he pants again, by god it's perfect and Bond kisses him and still Silva's pushing up, up, wants more, so that's what he tells Bond, who then pulls his fingers out and gently grabs Silva by the hips and rolls on top of him, and the fur is soft under Silva's back –

Then Bond tugs at his legs, pulling them up, and Silva's surprised at how _gentle_ he is.

Bond spits on his own fingers and slicks himself up, then positions himself and opens his mouth to ask something, but Silva gives him a wide-eyed, probably desperate look and Bond grins and enters him and _fuck –_ Silva claws at the fur below him, all his muscles taut and he arches off the ground, but Bond pauses, giving him time to adjust, and as soon as Silva's breath is calmed down a little bit, Bond leans forward and intertwines their fingers on Silva's sweat-soaked chest.

Then he starts thrusting and fucks all the thoughts out of Silva's mind, ruthlessly and Silva can't do anything besides lying back and being taken for the ride and does he enjoy it—he does enjoy it, by god, it's been too long, and he's so close already but he doesn't want it to end so soon, wants to last, so he squeezes Bond's hand harder and says between thrusts, “slow... down... pl–” and bites his tongue to prevent himself from saying the last word.

Bond leans forward as best he can to give him a long, sloppy, wet kiss and damn, Silva had warned him but he just doesn't stop and Silva's been on edge and untouched for too long and Silva’s pushed over the edge, and he clenches his jaw to prevent himself from making the _most_ undignified sounds, but whimpers and pants and he can imagine how it must look to Bond who swiftly follows – his fingers squeezing Silva's to mush, Bond's other hand digging into his thigh.

Bond collapses on Silva's chest and he tries to catch him as best as he can, then Bond pulls out and Silva can't stop a sound from escaping his lips, empty, emptiness suddenly too present.

With an exhausted-sounding sigh, Bond rolls off of Silva completely and lies down on his back next to him, their fingers still intertwined. Silva doesn't mind, he likes it.

“Stay here.”

Silva almost jumps, when Bond speaks.

“What?”

“Stay here,” Bond repeats.

“I'm not going anywhere,” Silva mutters lazily. He shifts somewhat closer to the smouldering fire in the hearth, pulling Bond along with him, then closes his eyes. Why doesn't Bond shut up and enjoy.

Bond sighs. “I didn't mean just right now. I meant...”

Silva waits for Bond to finish, then stops waiting, then realises what he means and snaps his eyes open.

“What...”

Bond props himself up on one elbow and stares at Silva, closely.

“Don't you... Don't you see how perfect this is?”

Silva stares back – suspiciously. This is... odd.

Then Bond leans in and kisses his thoughts away. Warm lips on his own whisper, “promise me you won't go back.”

Bond climbs on top of him and wedges a knee between Silva's legs. His stamina might not be on par with what it used to be, but his cock stirs and he feels blood rushing from his head to his groin. Oh, fuck.

Bond kisses him again, “promise me.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Say it,” Bond whispers hotly.

“I prommmm-”

Bond bites his lower lip. “Mm?”

“I promise,” Silva snaps and kisses him back roughly, and Bond lets him, then lies down with his face buried in the crook of Silva's neck. Silva thinks he feels something wet on his skin but is too lazy to look – probably sweat. He pulls Bond close and dozes off.


	19. The End

Silva's snaps his eyes open. He's lying on his back, naked, on the fur, the fire died out. He's freezing, so without second thought he stands up, finds the most nearby piece of clothing and uses it to partly cover himself while he looks for a bathroom. He finds it after traipsing through the cold halls for a minute, and gets a slightly worried feeling when he sees Bond nowhere, but it too cold and dirty to care – he really wants a shower.

The hot water is still working, bless that gamekeeper, and he's just enjoying his shower when the thought suddenly comes back to him.

What the fuck did he promise Bond.

He freezes inside, outside, everywhere. He turns off the shower, dries himself off at record speed, marches back to the room where they deposited their clothes, puts them on and strides outside – he has a feeling that little cowardly prick is skulking somewhere outside. And yes, he's right – as soon as he flings open the front door of the mansion, he spots Bond in the distance, walking further away from the house, carrying something which looks like an old-fashioned shotgun.

Silva really doesn't feel like yelling at him to slow down, so he just sets off at a jog himself to catch up with the man. After two minutes or so, he's almost caught up with Bond, who suddenly turns around and aims the gun at him in a reflex, and almost immediately drops it again – however, there's that split second when he hesitates, and Silva notices it.

“Hey–” Bond starts, but Silva holds up a finger and points it at the man.

“You seduced me,” Silva snaps.

Bond slings the gun's strap over his shoulder and crosses his arms. He remains silent.

“You _seduced me_ into an agreement.”

“Well, when you were screaming 'yes' at me–”

“Fuck you,” Silva steps closer.

Bond sets his jaw and drops his chin on his chest before looking back up at Silva.

Then Bond swallows and says, “you weren't inebriated, it's valid.”

Silva turns away, throws his hands into the air, then clenches them into fists, his nails buried in his own flesh, all his muscled flexed and tense, then turns back towards Bond.

“You can't trick me into a promise when your fucking _semen_ is still leaking out of me–”

“Apparently, I can,” Bond says quietly.

Silva squints at him, breathing heavily through his nose. He doesn't understand – doesn't understand Bond's behaviour. He doesn't want to say that the man is simple to read, he's not an open book to Silva, but his behaviour of earlier and just now seems so... out of character. Actually, this whole episode doesn't make sense.

Bond voluntarily leaving MI6 doesn't make sense.

Oh. Oh, fuck. _Oh, fuck_.

If Silva had had that gun in his hands right now he might've just pulled the trigger. Instead, he turns on his heel and stalks off, anger burning brightly behind his eyes, in his mind, threatening to blow the fuse and take over everything.

Bond is next to him in a few large strides and takes him by the elbow, but Silva shrugs him off.

“Stop following me.” He tries to say it as threatening as he can, and it's not a big feat, being in the state he is. _Not fragile not fragile not–_

Bond holds his hands up, palms towards Silva, with an almost pleading look on his face. “You don't understand.”

“No, I _do_.”

“I'm fairly certain you don't.”

“Well then,” Silva snaps, and abruptly stops walking.

Bond agitatedly rubs his forehead. “Look. M asked me to leave MI6 and take you with me, to grant the both of us an escape, a clean slate.” It sounds like Bond is almost begging Silva to understand him. “She just never thought you'd figure it out.”

Wait – she underestimated him, of course she did, the bitch. She underestimated him when she gave him to the Chinese, when he protected her secrets, protected her. And now again? In her final, grand master plan?

“You fucking liar,” Silva whispers through clenched teeth, feeling tears stinging in the corners of his eyes, tears of anger, tears of hurt. Not him, not Bond – of course, the one time he trusts someone again, even a little bit, it's taken from him as soon as an opportunity presents itself.

But that remark turns out to be too much for Bond, and he breaks. He approaches Silva so that they're standing almost flush against each other, and whispers right in front of his face, “do you have _any_ idea, the sacrifice I made leaving London, leaving MI6? I did this for her and I did this for _you_. She _wanted_ to grant you an escape but she couldn't, of course she couldn't! You owe me your freedom!”

“I don't owe you anything,” Silva whispers back. “You took from me what I have been working on for fifteen years.”

“Well, then we're bloody in this together, aren't we?” Bond shakes with what looks like pent-up anger. “I lose everything, you lose everything. We're even, no one ends up on top.”

“ _She_ does.”

“Please,” Bond huffs, finally stepping away. “As if she could ever fall off of her pedestal for you. I bet that if you had her cornered and a gun aimed at her, you wouldn't even have been able to do it.”

Silva opens his mouth to rebuke that statement, but its blunt truth stops him.

“See?” Bond says, with a flat voice and burnt out eyes.

“So now we're in this together,” Silva quotes back at him, just as emptily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That's a wrap.
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, hope you enjoyed, I love your feedback/kudos/(constructive) criticism. Thanks for reading!


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